


The Ring Unmade

by Beatriceorme



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:24:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 92,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatriceorme/pseuds/Beatriceorme
Summary: WARNING!!!! NON-CONSENSUAL  SEX!!!





	1. Chapter 1

 

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter One

 

 

  
  
  
Pippin ran. He ran until the stitch in his side pierced clean through. He ran until legs wobbled like Junior Timmons, the town drunk, on Saturday night. He ran until lungs seared hot as the brimstone preached from the pulpit on Sunday morning. He ran until the sweat of hot August noons was chilled by the night terrors of childhood brain-sucking closet monsters. He ran headlong into the darkness for they, for _It,_ was behind him and gaining.  
  
_I see you._  
  
He drowned in the darkness, black, inky, like the ball he so desperately wanted to forget he had ever touched. The only light in this void came from over his shoulder like a stalker deep in the shadows.  
  
_It is you, now, Peregrin Took. You are the one I seek._  
  
He wanted to tell it no. No, he was nobody special, just little Pippin, just simple Pip Took from the hills of Tennessee who had an annoying habit of touching things he shouldn’t, and his Nana Banks had always said nosy hands in, sticky trouble out, insatiable curiosity, like a cat clawing at a closed door, and he never believed her, but, now, oh, god now he did, and he would promise to never, EVER touch anything again as long as he lived if he could just get out, get away, get free of what was chasing him.  
  
_You are the one, Peregrin._  
  
Denial shook his head violently, too winded and terrified to form words with mouth. A silent no, no, I’m not the one you seek. Just along for the ride, that’s me, a nobody, a hanger-on who tagged with thinking it would be fun, an adventure, but it’s been nothing but hell, like the time I went to church camp and got lost on that hiking trip, and had to spend the night in the woods with only a windbreaker, soggy socks and that lame-ass badge with my name burned into the wood. That was the worst moment of my life, up until now, and this was just the capper in a long line of horrific events that has strung out crappy over the past few weeks. No, no, little Pippin Took, Pal’s towed-headed youngest, is not the one.  
  
_You have what I seek, Peregrin._  
  
Like hell he did! The only thing he carried was his Swiss Army knife great-granddad gave him on his seventh birthday. That and some spare change in case he wanted a Dr. Pepper. Didn’t even carry a wallet. Merry did that for him - ID, Social Security card and all that shit, all carefully tucked away inside Merry’s wallet for safe keeping, for little Pip Took here had a bad tendency to lose things, or just forgetting where he put them last, so Merry kept up with his essential stuff for him, and that’s why Pippin could never be carrying anything so important as The -  
  
_You have what I seek, Peregrin._  
  
No, I don’t! I would never be stupid enough to pick that thing up, not all the sweet tea in the Confederacy could make me pick that thing up, not with all the bullshit it’s caused, all the pain and death, sorrow and hurt. I may be simple, but I’m not that dumb. Not courageous neither. The one who carries it is braver than everybody, brave to face the danger, strong to take the burden. Never would look at him and think ‘there stands the bravest of them all’. Never thought that he would be the one to face down evil. Not simple Pip Took from Scottsburgh, TN, population 1,754 - no, not he, but his friend from upstate New York, he was the one, the quiet one, his friend, Fr-  
  
Pippin stopped running, clamped down on whirling mind, tossing thoughts in a box and plopping down tightly on the lid. A pause for a little deductive reasoning…

If It was seeking still, then It had no clue to the truth, the truth as to where The - no fucking way he was going to be the one to enlighten It. And, if It’s sights trained this way, toward him – big time suck being the target of orcs again, life constantly in peril again – but, It would be blind to all else, looking over _his_ shoulder, leaving friend clear to finish business, the business of saving the world, the business of destroying The – Logic and loyalty made a choice.

Squaring shoulders, little Pippin Took, who on the first day of kindergarten wet his pants when he met the principal, turned and looked directly at the Eye.  
  
“I am Peregrin Took, and I am the Ringbearer.”  
  
The flames leapt high, sending the black void scurrying.  
  
_Give me what I seek._  
  
Standing his ground, simple Pip Took protected his friend by throwing the light of Sauron towards him. “I am the Ringbearer.”  
  
Fire was all around him, it burned into his tortured lungs, blistered skin. Pippin fell to his knees shielding face from the heat. The Eye pressed in, seething with hate.  
  
_I want what is_ mine! _I will take what is_ mine!  
  
He looked up, frightened to his skivvies, yet firm in resolve of the rightness of choice, ready to meet The Dark Lord, afterward his Maker. However, he witnessed instead tall white buildings rising up out of the conflagration, stately and sure amid the flames. Stone and statue, king and commoner, history rolling back to magnificent power. And in the middle, a tree, stark and barren, burned. A white tree was aflame in a courtyard of a great towering city and Pippin lay at its awesome feet, burning, too.  
  
_Peregrin Took, give me what I seek!_  
  
So intense now, the incandescence of the White City, he could not differentiate between it and the Eye. Covered in fire, simple Pippin Took, voted in high school as class clown, who knew fidelity the true measure of a friend, curled into the smallest ball he could manage and waited for the flames to take him.  
  
See, Gandalf, he could keep a secret.

  
  
  
*****

  
  
_Smart move, Estel, just couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you?_ He snorted and the sound sent the naked form pressed into him squirming. He calmed by gentle strokes, hand lingering there, one golden tress winding around his finger.  
  
_Like fire._ Where Arwen was the air he needed to breath, Eowyn was a heat that kept his body warm. _So different._ Making love to Arwen was smooth and calm, a ballet of graceful and effortless moves, reaching out to always find the other there. Arwen was satin, moonlight dancing across the water. She soothed and cooled his soul.  
  
Eowyn, well, sex with her was more like a rugby match, physical, passionate, a tangle of limbs and tongues. A fire burned inside Eowyn that stoked his to red hot, and both had burst forth at the first kiss. Eowyn was a force to be reckoned with, a massive wave that would not be denied. In not resisting, he had nearly drowned.  
  
It was a mistake. A stupid ass mistake, a monumental mistake, he knew that now, taking Eowyn to his bed. But, all that talk about Denethor and the White City and Sauron and destiny had pushed him away and right to the most pleasurable place to hide from one’s responsibilities, right into the arms of a beautiful woman. And Eowyn was most definitely beautiful. Light hair, light eyes, skin freckled where the sun had worshiped her. Where Arwen was the deepest moment of the night, Eowyn was the dawn.  
  
_Got to stop doing that._ Aragorn swiped hand across his face, trying to banish Arwen from his mind. _Not very gentlemanly to be thinking about one woman when another is lying beside you._  
  
No use, though. Arwen may be gone from Arda, but not from his mind. Just like his soul. _I wonder if she’s happy, if the Blessed Realm is anything like described in the old tales? Is she healthy? Is she content? Is she lonely?_ The idea of his meleth finding solace from the pain of separation as he did made him bristle.  
  
Camaraderie with the guys, intense exercise, long hours practicing with sword and weapon, slaughtering orcs, defeating Saruman, Aragorn had attempted just about everything he had time for to try and stop seeing his love everywhere he looked. Blood and death had worked quite nicely for a while, his mind bent on survival. Then that certain scent of a woman’s perfume, the touch of the evening breeze, the soft sound of a contended sigh, and Arwen lived and breathed for him anew. _How does one forget someone when they meant everything to you?_ He caressed the gift hanging about his neck. _How do you turn away from your heart?_ Obviously, he did not know the answer to that question, for here he was, lying naked, sated by another woman’s body, and wishing the hair turning in his finger was dark and silky as the night.  
  
An inward sigh. No escaping it, useless, folly to run anymore. Arwen’s smile firmly planted in his mind. And no matter that they would never be together again, she was his soul mate, and he could no more rid himself of her than winter could of the falling snow. He could spend the rest of his days waking up with the sunrise in his arms, but he would always yearn for midnight.  
  
But, what to do about the woman softly breathing into his shoulder? What to say when she awoke? He supposed he could play the cad and walk away without a word, or he could string her along, using what she had to offer when he needed to blow off some steam. Both contemptuous,  neither acceptable, nor fair to Eowyn. A jewel, a prize that only the most deserving should win. She needed someone strong to stand up to her temper, someone with a mind as quick and inquisitive as hers. She deserved someone to love her without reservation or pause, someone who recognized the inestimable gift loving her had to offer. And Aragorn knew that he was not that man.  
  
She stirred, pressing naked breasts against him, and he fought the urge to reach out and touch her sun kissed shoulder. It was hard, this temptation; whether he was the heir of Gondor or not, he was only a man. A man who responded naturally to the opportunity in his bed. _What would you think of me now, meleth?_  
  
Muffled shouts from the corridor outside gave him the needed distraction.  
  
“What? What is it?” Eowyn’s sex ruffled hair appeared above the duvet as pillow slipped off the bed.  
  
“Nothing, just go back to sleep,” Aragorn dismissed, pulling on pants.  
  
Holding sheet to her breast, Eowyn sat up, attention bent to the hallway. “But, that – that -someone’s in trouble, calling for help.”  
  
Aragorn opened the door -  
  
“Goddammit! Someone help me, PLEASE!”  
  
“Stay here!” Command rushed toward the crises.  
  
“Like hell I will!” No more to be coddled, no more to be left behind, Eowyn scrambled for her robe, she had finally found her place, and would stay right there at Aragorn’s side.

 

  
  
*****

 

  
It had grown cold. Not Merry, no, he was still very hot, despite the Sister’s best efforts, it was Pippin’s side of the bed, gone so long now icy without his warmth to comfort. Either he had lost his way – a possibility in this unfamiliar house - or he had found some kind of mischief coming back from the bathroom – the more likely scenario. Either way, Merry was determined to find him, retrieve him, bitch at him, then turn him into wrung out jelly on scorch-marked sheets.  
  
As he slipped boxers on over his “problem”, Sir Isaac had run out of theories, the first muffled cry. No worries, certainly not his, a lot of wasted people at the party tonight, probably just too many Long Island teas arguing with rum and Cokes. The second cry, the anguished cry, _Pippin’s_ cry, and plans to dress more until house guest decent hit the floor with sweatpants.  
  
“PIPPIN!”

The wails came from…left – no, right, right next door, Gandalf next door, Pippin screaming from Gandalf’s – oh, no.

“PIPPIN!”  
  
There, writhing on the floor, the black ball from Isengard in his hands.  
  
“Oh, my god! PIP!”  
  
By his side instantly, but no idea on help. He grabbed at arms, thinking to dislodge the orb, but Pippin's hold on the ball too strong. He yanked and snatched to no avail, grip death-like.  
  
“Fuck, Pip, let go! Fucking let go!”  
  
Shook Pippin’s shoulders, the convulsions working against him. No sound escaped from gaping mouth has he bucked and thrashed across the woven rug, spittle flying.  
  
“PIP! LET GO!”  
  
Skin had turned ashen, sweat streamed from body, tremors continued unabated, the black orb searing into his hands. Merry clutched the wracking body to chest, watching eyes roll back. “Wake up, Pip, just wake up. Please!” Helpless as his lover was useless to aid him. “Help, somebody, help!” A gurgling sound bubbled in Pippin’s throat, lips turning blue, a sickening beat of heels pounding floor. “Goddammit! Somebody help me, please!” Then, one last gulp, Pippin just stopped. Struggling, moving, breathing, falling limp in Merry’s arms, silent. “Help, fuck, help somebody now!”  
  
_CPR! Prone on the floor. Head back, open mouth, pinch nose and breath. One, two, three._ “Help!” _Cup hands, find the spot. Goddamn ball is in the way! Pump, one, two three._ “Anybody!” _Pinch nose. One, two, three. Fucking black piece of shit! Pump, one, two three. Listen. Nothing._ “Fuck!” _One, two, three. One, two, three._ “Please, help!”  
  
No response to emergency care, no pulse, no respirations, no movement of any kind, and yet still held on to Saruman’s orb. Help had not arrived and Merry had had enough. Something had to be done to keep Pippin from dying. _This may be a very bad idea, but -_ Merry reached out to remove the ball from Pip -  
  
“NO!”

 

  
  
*****

  
  
  
“But, I still don’t understand why we have to go to Minas Tirith.” Pippin pouted as he watched Merry stomp about the room, looking for some jeans. “I want to go home.”  
  
“Well, you can’t!” A cruel, snappish response. “He’s seen you, Pippin. He knows who you are, thanks to that fucking stunt of yours.”  
  
Penitent’s gaze hugged the floor.  
  
A mumbling tirade while dressing, Merry preaching to his own choir.“Could have been killed, listen to Gandalf, no, not Pip, does whatever he damn well pleases, just had to touch it, didn’t he? Just had to.” Accusation wheeled about, shirt buttons forgotten. “Why, Pip, why did you look into the ball? Even after Gandalf told you not to?”  
  
No other explanation to offer than, “Because I wanted to see it, Merry.”

“Just like at Isengard, out on the wall, just like that fucking stupid stunt?”

“Well, I -”

“You promised me! Never again! Not even one day, not even twenty-four hours and -” vexation, infuriation, disappointment, a mushroom cloud of betrayal exploded. “You promised me!”

Even the most sincere apology and complete prostration with guilt could not put all the pieces back together again.  
  
“Well, you saw it now, Pip. Do you feel better? Was it everything you thought it would be? Did you have a good time talking to Sauron?”  
  
Recalling the Eye - “No, it was fucking horrible, Merry.”  
  
“It’s going to be worse in person,” not feeling any better because of his outburst, Merry going back to his buttons, “And that’s why you’re going to Minas Tirith.”  
  
“But, that’s practically on the eyeball’s doorstep! Don’t see how moving next to Mordor is gonna help!”  
  
This had all been explained when he came to after Aragorn had stopped Merry from touching the black ball, the Palantir as explained, as it was formally known, by grabbing it from Pippin instead. Coming back from the fire with a strangled gasp, he had opened eyes to a crowd of faces - Merry, Eomer, Theoden, Legolas, Gimli – all hovering above, all frighteningly concerned. Only Gandalf’s was drawn tight with anger. The old man had questioned Pippin quickly and persistently, asking about things that he would rather have forgotten. _What did you see? What did Sauron say? Did you mention anything about Frodo and the Ring?_ That last one, answered had hedged a bit. He told Gandalf a half-truth. No, he never said anything about _Frodo_ and the Ring. When that answer seemed to satisfy, the other part withheld, figuring it was better to leave Gandalf happy than say something to incur his wrath further.  
  
Decisions flew fast and furious then, all made about him and without his consent. Pippin would accompany Gandalf to The White City and warn them. His vision of the burning buildings convinced the old man that Sauron planned to destroy Gondor first, so Aragorn would stay with Rohan, guard the Palantir and wait for Gandalf’s call. Pippin had had no time to protest before he was ushered out and back to his own room with orders to pack and be ready to leave immediately. Now sat on the edge of the bed dressed in the hodge-podge mess of clothes tossed in his direction - his and Merry’s stuff pretty much ruined, neither Tide nor Clorox could rid the fibers of Isengard stench - he wore a collection of hand-me-downs from Eomer. The jeans two sizes too big, dropping low on hips, a faded Penn State sweatshirt swallowed him. Scuffed and dirty, his LL Bean hiking boots, the ones given to him at Rivendell, the only things that fit properly. He felt like the red-headed stepchild and more than a little miffed at everyone’s ire. _Wasn’t I the one to discover Sauron’s plans? What would have happened if I hadn’t looked into the black ball? I did them a favor, for Christ’s sake!_ Worst of all, Merry was angry with him and that just made him feel all the more put upon.  
  
“That was Saruman’s ball, Pip,” Merry shoved one foot into a boot, lacing it sharply. “And that’s where Sauron thinks you are, Isengard. He’s gonna come here looking for you there, which is right here really, and you can’t be here, so you’re going there.”  
  
Couldn’t follow that, so he didn’t even try. “Merry, I don’t want –"  
  
Foot slammed to the floor. “Pippin, goddammit! He thinks you have it! Don’t you understand? ‘Cause you looked into that fucking ball, Sauron thinks you are the Ringbearer!”  
  
Something vital murmured under breath.  
  
“What? What did you say?”  
  
_OK. Truth time._ “He thinks I have the Ring because I told him I did.”  
  
Dumbfounded, nonplussed, and, if that were even possible, more irate. “You did WHAT?”  
  
“I told the Eye I was the Ringbearer.”  
  
Mouth opened and closed several times before anything coherent managed to eke out. “ _WHAT_! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, why did you do something so fucking - do you know what you - now, Sauron’s hunting you. Coming after you –"  
  
“Instead of Frodo!” Personal brand of righteous indignation, that Merry of all people couldn’t see why, raised the wood paneled ceiling. “If Sauron’s looking for me, he’s not looking for Frodo. This gives them a chance, Frodo and Sam, a chance to win. Christy Almighty, Merry, don’t YOU understand? I did it for Frodo.”  
  
Whoosh! Like a popped balloon, fury and resentment deflating. “Oh, Pippin.” Other boot left unlaced, Merry rushed to the bed, gathering up his hero. “God, I love you.”  
  
And Pippin accepted him gladly. “Then you’re not angry with me anymore?”  
  
“No, I’m fucking furious,” tears blinked back, “but, I understand why now. Not the ball touching, the Sauron lying.”  
  
“For Frodo.”  
  
“For Frodo.”  
  
Three sharp knocks and escort service stuck head in the doorway. “Time to go, gentlemen.”  
  
Merry slapped the tears away, breaking their embrace. “OK, we’ll be right there.”  
  
Aragorn retreated back to the hallway, giving the friends a few more moments alone.  
  
Wallet fished out, “You may need these,” several items and a twenty handed over, “put them in a safe place. Pippin, don’t lose them.”  
  
A furrowed brow looked at driver’s license. “What is this? You always keep this stuff.”

Could not meet Pippin’s eyes. “Yeah, well, you better carry them now.”  
  
“But, if I need them, you’ll be right there.” He handed them back, but Merry walked away.  
  
“No, Pippin, I won’t.”  
  
A sick fear rumbled at the bottom of stomach. “What are you saying?”  
  
“Not coming with you.”  
  
A nervous, something really bad is happening here laugh. “Quit shitting me! Of course, you’re coming. We’re both going to Minas –"  
  
“NO!” A shout with despair peeking through. “No, I’m not. You’re going with Gandalf to Minas Tirith alone.”  
  
“I can’t! I won’t! Merry, I don’t want to be alone!”  
  
“Now, Pippin,” Aragorn from the hallway.  
  
“Merry, please!” Didn’t care if voice had crossed over to a whine. He couldn’t be separated from Merry. _How can this be happening? Sent away like a naughty child!_ “I promise I won’t do anything wrong again, I mean, really, _truly,_ promise this time. I’ll listen to Gandalf, I’ll sit quietly in the corner, you won’t even know I’m there. Please, Merry. I don’t want to go alone.”  
  
Back to lacing his boot. “You won’t be alone. You’ll be with Gandalf.”  
  
“You know what I mean!” A snatch at his arm, Merry forced to listen. “I will be alone without you!”  
  
Walking out of Pippin’s grasp, Merry retrieved borrowed hat and coat. “Here, don’t forget these. It’s cold now.”  
  
“Fuck that!” Offered coat knocked out of Merry’s hand, sending it flying across the bed. “Why aren’t you fighting this? Why aren't you raising hell to come with me?”  
  
“Because actions have consequences, Pippin, because _you_ looked into the ball. Because _you_ need to leave here, because _you_ are the one Sauron wants. I don’t count in this equation anymore.”  
  
“Not count? Merry, after all that we’ve been through, how can you just roll over on this? Let me walk out that door?”  
  
“Not my decision,” Merry again attempted to give coat to his friend, “I’m low man on the ladder around here.”  
  
This time the coat ended up at Pippin’s feet. “Stop saying that! You _are_ important!”  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
“Yes, yes you are! To me you are.” Capturing Merry’s arm, Pippin tugged him close. Stood like a stone, eyes shuttered, jaw clenched, shut up, shut down. “You are important to ME, Merry. I could not have gotten through any of this without you.”  
  
“Don’t, Pippin,” struggled to be free, “you’re going ‘cause it’s the right thing to do. You’ll have Gandalf, you won’t need me at all.”  
  
“Bullshit! Can’t believe you’re saying all this. Not need you? I wouldn’t even be able to find either of my shoes without you, wouldn’t be able to find anything – car keys, subway tokens, phone, my heart.”  
  
The shakes of holding misery at bay. “Don’t do this. You’ve got to go.”  
  
“I wouldn’t be able to find anything if you didn’t walk around picking up after my mess.”  
  
“Well, this is one mess I can’t clean-up for you. Someone else’s job now.”  
  
“Merry, what am I going to do without you?” Almost a shriek of desperation. “I need you!”  
  
“When I said now, I didn’t mean in ten minutes,” Aragorn from the hall again, “I meant NOW!”  
  
“Just a fucking minute!” Merry snatched to his chest and held there. “I can’t do this without you, Merry.”  
  
“Yes, Pippin, you can.” Merry pulled back, brave face mask tattered round the edges, “You faced orcs, survived Isengard, you stood up to Sauron. You can do this. You have to, you must go to Minas Tirith.”  
  
“And you, Merry? Why are you so set on staying here? What important thing do you HAVE to do?”  
  
“Let you go.”  
  
Their kiss filled with an anguish neither had the strength to voice, the courage to accept. They held on to each other, storing up the joy their joining created, hoping it would see them through the long, lonely and uncertain days ahead.  
  
“Oh, shit, I almost forgot!” Embrace broken, Merry ran to grab a plain brown package from the chair over by the closet, handed to Pippin with a rueful smile. “Thought you might want this back, seeing has how you thought it made you look dashing.”  
  
“My cloak!” Paper tossed aside, spinning garment to shoulders. “Where did you -? How did -? Merry, this is fucking fantastic!”  
  
Lover watched reflection examination in the mirror on the back of the door, Pippin’s face bright and happy as he turned one way then the other trying to see himself from every possible angle. “Wasn’t me. Eomer found them among the dead orcs.” A look back over shoulder with an expectant question…“Nope, no daggers.”  
  
“Shit. You get yours?”  
  
Merry pointed to the other package. “Mine’s right there.”  
  
“Then you’ve got to wear it, when you come to Minas Tirith.” Face fell to serious. “You are coming, aren’t you? I mean when Aragorn and the rest come down to kick Sauron’s ass. You’ll be with them, right?”  
  
As if his wishes counted for anything. “Sure, sure, Pip, I’ll be there.”  
  
“Last call,” Aragorn opened the door and stepped in this time, “Next time, it will be Gandalf coming after you.”  
  
Doghouse occupant paled at the prospect. He ran to his lover and planted a big, wet, sloppy Pippin-kiss right on Merry’s mouth. “I’ll be waiting for you, and I promise not to get into any trouble down there.” One more fierce hug and Pippin bolted for the door. A pause to look back. “I’ll see you in Minas Tirith, Merry.” It was both a question and a statement.  
  
“Soon, Pip, real soon.”  
  
“I love you, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”  
  
The door slammed behind him.

Wandering the room, 11’ x 17’ jammed packed with antique oak, Merry relived the conversation he had wanted to have, the truth he had begged to tell, yet couldn’t if Pippin was to leave without him.

_“Why aren’t you fighting this?”_

_I did! Over and over again. He belongs with me, I told them, he belongs with –_

_‘Pippin would be safer in Minas Tirith,’ they said, ‘Pippin would be better off away from here. Pippin has others who can protect him now.’_

_No one would listen to me!_

_“Let me walk out that door?”_

_‘Thank you very much, Merry. We’ll take it from here, Merry,’ they said, ‘Pippin must travel to Minas Tirith without you, Merry.’_

_Like I, like WE didn’t matter at all._

_“You’re coming to Minas Tirith, aren’t’ you?”_

_Straight there, no passing Go, no two-hundred bucks, I’d travel to anywhere you -_

_‘Thank you, Merry, you’ve been a great help, Merry, we’ll see you home, Merry,’ they offered placating afterthought, ‘would you like us to call you a cab, Merry?’_

_Kicked to the curb like fucking garbage!_  
  
Edge of bed, now with no way to be warmed, caught his tears _. He’s gone._ Tears of sorrow and tears of shame. He wept in fear of what his love would face and for the very real possibility that they would never meet again. _My love is gone._  
  
He was just Merry now.

 


	2. 2

 

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter Two

 

 

 

  
  
The Ring heavy about his neck, Frodo took one step into The Tunnel. “Are you sure this leads to – shit!” A drastic temperature change – frozen outside to steam room in – “SHIT!” – glasses all fogged up.

“Come on, hurry, Mmmaster,” inpatient call from somewhere off to the right, “Hurry nnnow!”  
  
“Where’s Sam?” His music had spiked a moment ago, a cacophonous chord, an entering Mordor anxiety peak no doubt, now just a rumbling bassline. “He should be –”  
  
“Following behind you. Right, Sam? He sssays, ‘Yes, you little shit.’”  
  
_Yeah, that sounds like Sam._ “Where are we?” A bitch of a time finding a dry piece of clothing in order to wipe his glasses clean, the rain having seeped into nearly every - fuck it. Glasses pulled off and wiped smeary on soggy shirt tail.  
  
“Shortcut. Cccome now, Mmmaster. Must go now!”  
  
Hesitant, cautious, a bad feeling about this waking up stomach butterflies. “Give me a second to get, ya’ know, acclimated to the -”

“No time! No tttime to waste, an orc patrol will -” now off to the left, “we must gggo!”

“Calm down, be with you in a moment, just want to wait,” instinct, intuition, churning up butterfly flight, stick close, don’t trust, the warnings, Sam’s warnings, pulled out and snapped on like safety gear, “wait until Sa – shit!”

Smeagol, must’ve been, for who else could be here in the – “Hey!” – cloak corner nabbed, winding him round, dragging him backward. “Stop that! Fucking stop!” Glasses still in hand, feet jumbling for purchase, caught impotent in propelling forward momentum. “Smeagol!”

Faster, cloak stretched out taut, faster still – all a fuzzy blur, sharp rocks and squishy stuff – _What the hell was –_ tipped back, stumbling, bumbling further into darkness. “Stop ! Fucking st -”

And he did, at that exact moment, the sudden loss of cloak pulling, Frodo tripping, nearly falling, a kamikaze rushing forward, glasses protected only by a quick thinking shoulder roll, stuttering into hard, very hard, a wall of rock. “Goddammit, Smeagol! Why the fuck did you – where the fuck did you -”

In through a warm, wet washcloth, humidity, and – “Ewww!” – couldn’t see worth a damn, but nothing wrong with smell’s sense – “What is -  goddamn!” the stench, breaths sucked shallower. Dark, buried underground dark, the opening’s light far away anemic, and the drips of water somewhere off – somewhere out there, at his feet, by his face, the scuttling of –

Glasses rushed on to see –

Nothing.

Gloomy, wide tunnel, sickly sweet decay gagging throat.

“Smeagol?”

Cold sweat trickling down back, The Ring humming against chest, and something moved off to his – quick turn -

Nothing.

Nothing except low-hanging trails of…fishing nets or kite strings? Or…

Off to his – quick turn -

Nothing.

Nothing except the sharp feeling that he was in serious shit.

“Smeagol, where the fuck are you?”

Nowhere, that’s where, no sign or sound except that incessant dripping. _Perfect._ Obviously buggered off the moment Mordor threshold was crossed, the why for the Frodo dragging, agenda too full to waste precious time on the all the way through the Tunnel tour, abandon group half-way there instead, without further directions, in dank darkness and danger, the bare minimum of pledged task completed. _Fucking perfect._

Well, what now? Stand in place – to be sooner rather than later discovered by patrolling orcs? Move forward – wander aimlessly, swallowed up by the mountain, to be found, later probably, several days dead by patrolling orcs? Or suck it up, own mistakes in judgement, accept with humility all the ‘I told you so’s’ and with Sam together, find the path into Mordor.

_Fuck you, Smeagol, I WILL finish this._

OK, to find Sam…  
  
Retracing steps, hoping to see a friendly face along the way, retreating back to the entrance proved impossible, not enough light, insufficient recall, no idea which way in while forced running backward nearsighted. Perhaps the air smelled cleaner that…take the way to the left. _A dead end_. Back to the right opened to – “Shit.” - another cavern with four other possible paths. _Got to get out of here, got to find -_ Another way, then. Plan to take each one in turn until entrance found. Good on paper, great in theory, by the second, Frodo hopelessly lost.  
  
“Sam!” _Should have been in here by – should have heard him by_ – bass line rumblings unchanged – _should have at least_ – “Sam, where the hell are -”

His leg.  
  
“Shit!” Jerked away, the brush like a sting, balance lost, landed teeth clacking hard “Fu -”  
  
His arm.  
  
“Wha -” Scrambling up, body now covered with a sticky goo, model ship rubber cement, chewed sidewalk gum, pungent and chemical, it stuck to hair, hands and clothes, and stunk of something else entirely. _Death._ Get the hell out resumed in spades, pace quickening, an attempted return to the cavern with the four different possibilities, that way, that path he did remember. _If I just stand here and think this thing through logically, then the solution should present itself. Right, Gandalf?_  
  
Scuttling over head.  
  
Logically, he ran, the four ways at once, nearly shitting in his pants.  
  
“Sam! Sam!”  
  
“Samwise cannot help you nnnow.”  
  
Frodo stopped. So, the asshole hadn’t skipped out after all. “Smeagol?”  
  
“Master all alone.”  
  
Spinning in a circle, trying to find the source. Over there – no, there – no, everywhere the same thing: FUBAR. “Smeagol! Where are you?”  
  
“Right over here, Master.”  
  
Frodo whirled around. “Where? _Where_?”  
  
“Over here.”  
  
Just dark. “Smeagol, cut this shit out! If this is some kind of sick game you’re playing -"  
  
“Oh, it’s a game, alright, Frodo, but we’re just here to wwwatch.”  
  
From the second tunnel on the right, that’s where the voice taunted from, the largest of the lot, Frodo inching his way toward it. “What game are we playing, Smeagol?”  
  
“We told you, we’re not playing! _You_ are! Get it right!”  
  
“OK, if you’re not playing with me, then who is?” _Keep him talking, keep him making noise, so I can find him, find him and beat the shit out of him for leading me into this._ “With whom am I playing?”  
  
Snotty sinus sound slithered all around. “Her. You’re playing with Her.”  
  
A crunching, along the rocks, under foot, “Her?” Way creepy and disconcerting, hand brushed the wall for balance, more of that sticky between fingers.  
  
“Yes, Frodo, _Her_.”  
  
_There!_ Movement in the shadows – right there! _You are so dead, dickhead!_ “And what game are we playing?”  
  
Laughter darted across murky path. “Hide and seek, Frodo, and you better be quick, ‘cause She will surely find you.”  
  
_Almost there…_ “Hate to tell you this, Smeagol, but I was the hide and seek champion of Susquehanna Street -” _…almost there…_ “hide so fucking good, nobody could find –"  
  
“She sees you, Frodo Baggins, She’s watching you.”  
  
_…almost…_ “And I’m watching -” snatched at the object moving just ahead – “Gotcha!” round, hard and spiky. _Not Smeagol._

He looked up into soooooo many eyes.  


 

  
  
*****  


 

  
“Fucking Gollum.”  
  
If he thought climbing The Stairs arduous, the shimmying back up was leaps and bounds beyond that, this clawing up the short distance he had fallen without the aid those rough cut niches had given. Head pounded, sides throbbed, the small of his back where he had landed on his pack screamed. The rain seemed determined to see him fail, but he would not stop, could not stop.  
  
“Fucking asshole Gollum.”  
  
A few inches either way, and Sam would have missed the ledge he smacked entirely, continuing his thrust upon him plummet all the way down to the bottom of the mountain. Guess he blacked-out on impact, no telling for how long, waking up to the taste of copper. One moment to remember fall’s how, one second to assess what now, and only one thought driving aching body into motion, one thought kept him slipping and scrambling upward. _Frodo._  
  
“Goddamn fucking asshole Gollum.”  
  
He was there for Sam to climb toward, could see his Frodo clearly. But, the shadow lurked constantly, flowing around him like an oil slick, shape unusual, danger different somehow, the margin between Frodo and darkness growing slimmer.  
  
“Piece of shit goddamn fucking asshole Gollum!”  
  
With a grunt, Sam at last reached the ledge at the top of the Stairs, up and over for a second time, belly crawling away from the edge, but no respite for the wounded worried, tortured body pulled up on shaky legs.  
  
“Frodo!”  
  
Like a hungry mouth, the maw in the side of the mountain gaped, demanding to be fed. There was no sign of Frodo or the fucking asshole, only the sound of the whipping wind and driving rain. Out of the elements, perhaps just inside the -  
  
“Frodo!”  
  
But, no startling blue eyes behind geeky glasses appeared, Sam still alone on the ledge. _Please, don’t tell me he went into -_  
  
A shard of fear pierced him clean through, knocking him back, sudden and surgical, down to ass, trembling terror in its wake.  
  
“Frodo!”  
  
_He’s in trouble, deep shit_. Sam had to get in there, had to get to Frodo. Easier thought than done, though. Wind hurricaning, the slicing sleet, and body not yet on board with the reprising the role of rescuer, the only way forward achieved - scratching on hands and knees, breathless, not from his exertion, but from the sheer horror pumping through heart and soul. _Hang on, Frodo, I’m coning._  January molasses slow, but he was coming. Frodo feared for his life, the heightened emotion threatening to take what little strength Sam had left. The rock face offered a hand up, an unlooked for kindness here of all places, on Mordor’s doorstep, upright regained, steading against the vertigo, Sam’s legs crying out in protest.  
  
“Frodo!”  
  
Gagging, he stumbled into the murkiness of the mountain, the stench making eyes water, steam rising from cloak and hair as he picked precarious along the rock passage. Couldn’t see much, couldn’t breathe deep, gummy, slimy, like walking through high allergy season gunk, low hanging things swatted away, hands and face soon covered, heart gripped in fear, mind racing. _How the hell am I going to find –_  
  
“Sam!”  
  
Did not care what slapped at him from above, the sticky, the stink, no fucks given for what brushed against arms and legs, racing without notice, fatigue and pain vanished thanks to the Five Hour Energy boost from –  
  
“Frodo! _Frodo_!”  
  
“Follow the light, Sam, follow my voice! _Sam_!”  
  
_There!_ A faint twinkling off to his right, sputtering, growing distant. Frodo still strong enough to shout, Frodo still free enough to call, Frodo still aware enough to – “Coming! I’m –"  
  
Face smacked the rock floor, didn’t trip, didn’t collapse, no hole found by running foot, no bounce back either, he went down, hard and stayed, held there by hands around his throat.

 

  
  
*****

 

  
  
“Sam!”  
  
_Oh, fuck, where are you? Where the hell am I? Behind me now, right behind me, that genetically-fucked with, nuclear-accident-altered, alien-mutated-thing, shit! Where do I - left or right, left or -  It’s there! Run, run, run, idiot, just - to hell with where I’m going, just get the fuck out, out of - can’t see, can’t – what the fuck was that – how can I get out if I can’t - don’t fall, don’t fall down, ‘cause then it’ll be on top, it will get you, it will - no SHE, Smeagol said, Gollum said, that little dick - She. Shit! Now **She’s** in front of - back, go back the other – ah, fuck what did I just step - down there, there that little one, She can’t get in there, too big, too Godzilla-Mothra-King Kong big. In that small spot, yes, just stay in here safe, she won’t find me, stay safe, wait for Sam to find me, just like hide and seek, hide in this little hole with no other way out, hide, hide and seek, yeah, I’m good at that, good at hide and seek, I’ll just stay here, like a rabbit in a hole, in a hole trapped, trapped here like a sitting –_

“Shit!”

_Get out, now, get out, go right, run, run, fucking - too dark that way, left too dark, every way too dark! She’s playing with - don’t fall, God, whatever you do, don’t - can’t see shit, too dark, need my phone, phone, an app, a flashlight app - She’s right - go left, run – need a lighter, a match, a – go right – something, any - wait a minute, where it is? where the fuck did I put – there._

_OK…got it, here in my…what the fuck do I do – thought it would just – but it’s not –_

“FUCK!”

_How does it – no switch, no button to – that way, go that – shake it, rub it, clap it on – supposed to be a light in dark places, and if this isn’t a fucking piece of dark, I don’t know what – watch out! Duck, low hanging – fuck! That was a – duck the skeleton and – should come with instructions – come on, you lousy piece of – fucking work – there, down there, new way, go there! She’s still behind – what did that shrink say, what did – think, think! Can’t think, Ring too loud – shut up, shut up, shut the fuck – can hear Her, feel Her – breath on my – it hurts, it burns – won’t listen – must listen…remember what Galadriel said - run, run! Work, goddammit, come on, think – duck, don’t trip – think – shut up! Unknown words, foreign words – crazy shit like – Elebereth something, yeah, Elebereth…yadda, yadda, ya – watch where you’re – come on, come ON, Elebereth, light, light up, Elebereth a –_

_What was that? A voice…THE voice – oh, fucking A, it’s -_

“SAM!”

“Frodo!” _Over there, from over – close, but not close –_ “ ** _Frodo_**!”  
  
“SAM!” _He’s - don’t stop, idiot, don’t stop! This way, no, not that way, She’s there, I can hear - other way, go the other way! Sam’s coming, Sam is - light, damn you! Elbereth, yes, what else, what else - shit not the pain, the stitch in my side, not now, please not now, the Ring so heavy - what else, what else should I say –_  
  
“Gilthoniel A Elebereth!”  
  
_Where the fuck did that come – something I read, maybe, Bilbo’s books, at the Institute - Oh, yes! I can see, oh, yeah, light, light, beautiful light, fucking fantastic light –_  
  
“Follow the light, Sam, Follow my voice! _Sam_!”

“Coming, I’m -”

_Now I can see where I’m – now I can see where SHE –_

“Goddamn, you’re one ugly mother -”

_Who apparently doesn’t like –_

“Back off! Back the fuck -”

_My new bestest friend, my glowy rave stick glass bottle of –_ “I said back off!”

_Yeah, now it’s Her turn to hide, Her turn to run scared of the pure white – no, blue – no white and –_

“Oh, fuck me.”

_Sting, it’s glowing, glowing blue, and blue means orcs and orcs mean – just keeps getting better and –_

“BACK OFF!”

_Don’t think you can sneak up behind – behold my light! Correction – my lights! And if I don’t get out of here now, I -_  
  
“Sam!”  
  
_Where is he, should see me, see the light, should hear me –_  
  
“SAM!”  
  
_No, no you don’t, I’m getting out of here, and you can chomp down on those orcs, eat them, not me, ‘cause I’ve got the light, the sword and I’m getting – Sam, oh my god!_  
  
“Sam! What’s wrong?”  
  
_Go find him, go, go, GO! Shut up! The Ring’s voice is so fucking loud!_  
  
“Sam, what’s wrong?”  
  
_His music, his music is - Sam, I hear you, in trouble, terrible, terrible - Sam! Find him! Which way? Find him!_  
  
“Sam, are you –"  
  
_Fuck, **fuck,** FUCK, stupid, stupid, STUPID, tripped, fell down, over – dropped Sting, dropped my beautiful - now it’s laughing, the bastard’s laughing at - fuck, where, where, my glasses, my glasses, got to find my - can’t see, can’t see, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, no light, no sword, no glasses, No Sam, crawl away, get away, She’s there, my glasses, fuck, where, where are my –_  
  


  
*****

  
  
If he thought the pain in his head could not get any worse than before, he was dead wrong. Deprived of oxygen, fingers squeezing tight, it beat behind eyes to near bursting. Stuck on the ground, face down, the pain almost insurmountable. Attacker straddling back slight of build, but with leverage and revenge, still heavy enough to keep Sam prone and immobile.  
  
“Kill me? Kill _ME_ , Samwise?” Gollum sat between pack and head, knees pounding in on ears, fingers contracting. “You’re nothing, do you hear? Just a little cocksucker, and I’m squeezing your puny, queer life away.”  
  
Had to do something. What? _What?_ Bucking up, an attempt to dislodge the freak strangling, only succeeded in grip tightening.  
  
“Thought you could take It from us! The Treasure is ours! Ours!”  
  
Clawing at the hand around throat, nails biting, ripping into flesh. A huge rushing filled Sam’s ears, as vision faded to black.  
  
Leaning down, rancid mouth right next to victim’s ear. “You failed, Samwise. And I win. Your Frodo is dead.”  
  
Stay alive! Last ditch effort - reach up, both hands, shoulder joints tearing, snatch at, scratch for, grabbing a handful of greasy hair and - _YANK_.

“NO!”

Gollum pitched sideways, vise grip loosening enough for a painful breath to drag into empty lungs. And that was all Sam needed.

“NNNNNO!”

Drawing knees up under, Sam threw body up and over, a wrestling move perfected by older cousin bullying, and pinned Gollum beneath his fury and ubiquitous pack.  
  
“Get off, you faggot, get the fuck off me!”  
  
Fists landed hard, Sam’s cheek and nose, already scuffed by rocks, bruised and battered yet again, but one arm got too close, one arm moved too slow and –

“FUCK!”

Bite down hard, teeth into flesh, the shriek of pain echoing in the dark. Now one sharp elbow to the ribs and Sam was completely free. “You little motherfucker!” He rolled away, gasping and retching. “You are dead!”  
  
Sam lunged, but Gollum spun away, scrambling up to disappear down a passage way to the nothing.  
  
“We wants the Tttreasure! Give it to ussss!”  
  
Had come _THIS_ close – the day’s reoccurring theme. “Oh…god…damn.” Blood in his mouth, from nose, deep cut above eye, wallowing agony, breathing torture. But, it wasn’t over yet. Here for a reason, in this bullshit for a purpose, life’s paramount purpose - “Frodo…must find…”

Scrape the dregs of bodily endurance to rise up on – Nope. Not happening. Right here, a very nice spot, if one didn’t mind the accommodations of oppressive heat, gooey granite mattress and a month’s rotting and silent screaming corpse as roommate. Just stay right here where death near about punched his ticket for a moment, or a million, take some time to clear head, collect thoughts, some breath catching and blood clotting, don’t move until –

 “SAM!”  
  
OK, now he moved. Regardless of abused body’s explicit wishes for some serious down time in lieu of emergency medical care worlds away, now Sam was up, stumbling blindly down a passage – _The right one? How the fuck do I_ \- bumping, careening his way forward.  
  
“Frodo! Where -” hacking cough interrupted call, “that light, can’t see it any -”  
  
Without warning, Sam prone yet again, all on fumes strength evaporated, sucked dry, pitching, tumbling, crumpling hard to the rock, this new pain layer unregistered.  
  
_God, no, NO, FRODO! Frodo, FRODO!_  
  
A decimated, deserted place, a no man’s land. Empty, no life, only shades of grey. A cold and bitter wind blew through Sam's soul, meeting no resistance for nothing existed there anymore. Sam was blind and destitute, stripped of the feeling of his Frodo within.  
  
_No!_  
  
A great shroud had fallen, blocking Frodo, leaving Sam bereft and hollow.  
  
_My Frodo! Where are you? FRODO!_  
  
No Frodo meant no love. No Frodo meant no life. No Frodo meant no Sam.  
  
_You're not – please - don't want – alone – without - I can't - I won't -_  
  
Movement off left - a pale beam broke through along the passage floor. Sam blinked, tried to focus, bring thoughts back from the nothingness. _What the -_ The beam fluttered again. Something else was in the passage, something else alive. _Frodo!_ Using only his love to balance on, Sam struggled up. _There!_ A light - faint, weak - twinkled for attention. A reflection perhaps, a spark, drew Sam on hands and knees across rock. _Maybe, maybe, oh, god, please!_ The light beckoned to him, pulled him on, pulled him through, to where Frodo – no longer there - and when he held it in his hands, when the vial touched his palm, the warmth of Galadriel’s gift flowed power and majesty, fighting the biting wind battering his soul. _This was the light he – he was here – no body, no blood – maybe he’s still – maybe there’s still –_ in this dark hour, an unlikely companion – _hope._  
  
By knees, thoughtlessly thrown aside, Frodo’s glasses - one lens smashed, a temple piece bent at the wrong angle. With utmost care, Sam placed the broken things into inside pocket for safe keeping. _He'll need these, for sure. And_ I'll _need this._ Bilbo’s sword, glowing a faint blue, found a home in his right hand.

_Blue for orcs, did they take -_  
  
He heard it then, the scuttling further down the passage. _There, that way. The way those bastard took my -_ toward the sound, toward the light - against what the emptiness showed him, failing body struggled up yet again, leaden legs shuffling, holding the Lady’s gift in front, Sting as back-up.  
  
_Toward Frodo._  
  
Stronger, grew louder, more menacing with each step. Around a curve, the sound everything, he emerged out to a great grotto, blinking, disoriented, and saw not orcs, but -  
  
_Shit._  
  
The largest creature Sam had ever seen. Even bigger then the elephants he remembered from his seventh birthday when his ma had badgered dad into taking his youngest son to Madison Square Garden and the Ringling Brothers circus, tremendous, enormous creatures, doing tricks, spinning circles, all flapping ears and trumpeter trunks, a little boy enthralled. He had insisted on elephants on everything after that, his lunch box, his Underoos – even convinced his sister, May, to paint one on his bedroom wall. Nothing could get him then, not from the closet, under the bed, or the particularly nasty ones that followed after sleep, not when that huge elephant guarded him from above. Sam never thought he would face anything as large as his bedroom elephant, yet, here he was, standing and staring at a creature that dwarfed his childhood protector by a factor of ten.  
  
_Why?_  
  
He hated them, hated them so much, he would go out of his way to step on them, squash them out of existence. He knew they had a purpose in the scheme of life, knew they aided in gardening and growing things and all that. He also knew they passed through window cracks, came up out of kitchen drains, slipped under doors. They got into sheets, drawers, hair. They snuck into his dreams, creeping up behind, skittering across skin and face, into mouth and eyes. They covered his body until there was nothing left but a massive moving, roiling, seething pile where he used to be. Sam _hated_ them.  
  
_Oh, fucking WHY?_  
  
A mottled, sick black-brown, the behemoth’s mass filled one corner of the cavern. All about, covering ceiling to floor, the desiccated carcasses of its’ victims hung, a grotesque pantry, essence drained away, taken to keep the abomination alive. Sam’s entrance had gone unnoticed, the monstrosity’s eyes, a bagillion of them, intent on preparing fresh meat. It had something bound beneath the bloated body, something small all wound up in its putrid -  
  
“FRODO!”

A single thought, not of wounds or weariness, not of strategy or stealth, not even the astronomical odds of success and survival. Only a single plea -  
  
_Adonai, Yahweh, God, Illuvatar, or whatever name you wish, give me the strength, please, I’m begging you, please help me save my Frodo!_  
  
Tossing aside pack, Galadriel’s gift now shining brightly, Sting on the offensive, body suddenly refreshed, Sam marched to battle.

“Put him down, you piece of shit! Put him down - _now!_ ”  
  
Frodo hit the rock with a squishy thump and the spider lunged forward.  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Three

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter Three

 

 

Denethor swiped the blood off his face and smiled.  
  
_I know what you wish to do, Mithrandir. Your plans can’t remain hidden from one with eyes to see._  
  
Ignoring the pulsing pain, he walked from the spare room, turning out light, locking the door behind. Into breast pocket of Versace suit jacket the key slipped, it always kept close to his heart.  
  
Quiet prevailed in the office he showed to the rest of the world, and Denethor was soothed. Every time he ‘looked abroad’, the pain became worse. This time, every nerve in his body screamed. Couldn’t stop, though, he _had_ to know what his enemies were up to, had to know in order to plan his defense. They were sly, those black-hearted demons, and they were many. He needed the advantage his seeing stone provided to stay one step ahead.  
  
Hands quaking violently, he was forced to steady the pill bottle against the ebony credenza as he opened it. Two popped in his mouth, washed them down with thirty-year old scotch. Doctor had prescribed only one at a time, but that fool did not understand the pressure and strain of being CEO. Denethor could not work efficiently with the pain, and he could not cease his visits to the spare room, so double dose necessary. A view of his desk, spread full with neat stacks of today’s pressing business. A third popped just in case.  
  
The scotch hit his system with a bang, ironing out the raw edges and clearing the field for the drugs to sow their calm. The pounding was at least tolerable now, and Denethor felt well enough to begin his day of work. Lap top flipped open with a cheery cheesy triple bling, perusing NASDAQ as he absently poured another drink.  
  
“Bastards,” under breath mumblings as the numbers scrolled by, “Not enough that you poison our water supply, tear up our roads, disrupt utilities, you must bottom out our stock as well.”  
  
When the position of Chief Executive Officer passed to him, when his father had finally retired after many years in control, Denethor had had nothing but high hopes and grand plans to restore Gondor to its former glory. Once the White City had gleamed, a dazzling beacon welcoming all to partake of its splendors. A model community, a thriving subsidiary, the jewel, and envy, of Arda, Inc.  That stone lay drab now, covered with soot and grime, worn and weary. Most of Minas Tirith’s citizens were weighed down with the burden of trying to stay afloat in what came to be an unending downward economic spiral. No one cared that the stones on the walkways were crumbling, or that the iron holding the seven gates upright was rusting at the hinges. Who could spare a moment’s thought about appearances when they struggled to put food on the table? Denethor’s years in office had seen Gondor’s near collapse, but not because of his leadership. No, not his fault, scheming enemies had seen to their downfall.  
  
Bringing the highball to lips, Denethor discovered it empty. Refilled quickly, a double this time.  
  
Troubles recognized early on, Denethor had pushed through the Board many sweeping changes that, in the beginning, had brought new life to Gondor. Cautiously optimistic, every citizen held their collective breath, anxiously awaiting their long in coming Spring. Then came Osgiliath.  
  
The attack had been swift and merciless; the flames as the old suburb burned seen for miles, the screams remembered forever. No warning from those who destroyed and killed over 5,000 of Denethor’s people, and the local, state and federal authorities proved to be absolutely no help, the culprits of the heinous act never taking responsibility. No note or video, fax or email ever arrived to explain way Osgiliath had been targeted. The answer was too obvious, though, even for the most out of touch resident to ignore. Everyone watched the growing darkness to the east, felt the rumblings of evil coming from their neighbor, Mordor. The sacking of Osgiliath was meant as a message to Minas Tirith and Gondor: after eons of holding fast Arda’s Eastern border, white stone could protect them no longer.  
  
It went on for days, the squabbling, as to the best course of action. How should they answer the attack? Fight back, offer peace, ignore the whole thing? After a week of listening to men more enamored of their own voices than sense to take action, Denethor had slammed fist down on the black marble conference table and took matters into his own most capable hands. He was it, the head, the leader, buck stopper in chief, and _he_ would answer the threat, be their savior, see that Mordor learned a lesson in humility.  
  
What Denethor did not take into account was the sizeable army camped just across the border, an army that seemed to move about with the swiftness of time. No matter where their guard ran, they always arrived too late. Mordor, like a cancer, began to eat away at Gondor, corruption choking living tissue. Spring never arrived. A disastrous month and Denethor lost count of the number of letters sent to parents and widows offering condolences for their loss. Tactics were rethought, and he decided on a more preemptive approach to the defense of his people. What they had needed was a way to act first, a mechanism for anticipation. All _he_ needed was better intelligence, and locked away in the far corners of the family vault, covered by centuries of dust and forgotten warnings, uncovered by accident, Denethor’s means to a desperate end had waited, and he alone, his courage, ingenuity, his sacrifice, could save The White –

**_BUZZZZZ!_**  
  
Intercom cut through the blowsy scotch induced fog, intrusion irritating. “Yes, Beregond, what is it?” His assistant knew the rules: the CEO was indisposed to all but emergencies. That he had bothered his boss before nine AM, did not bode well.  
  
“There is someone here to see you, Sir,” then the voice paused.  
  
“Yes, well, who is it?” The coyness like blackboard fingernails.  
  
A heavy sigh blew ‘don’t kill the messenger’ reluctance through the speaker. “Your son, Sir. Your son is here to see you.”  
  
Up immediately, heart soaring. “My son?”  
  
“Yes, Sir. Faramir has just arrived from Ithilien.”  
  
He fell back, stung, stricken, executive leather chair groaning, highball slipping from hand to plunk softly, then roll across the Oriental rug forgotten. “My son.”  
  
“Says it’s urgent, Sir.”  
  
“Faramir.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” the voice a bit concerned, “Should I show him in?”  
  
_Faramir._ There for the briefest second, he had allowed his wildest dream to surface, a fantasy that saw Boromir come striding through his office door, smiling and strong, with a quick joke saying that reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated. But, he knew the truth, he had seen the cold body of his first born when it had arrived from New York, hung the wreath on the stone soon to mark his grave in the family mausoleum. His Boromir was dead, cut down by Gondor’s numerous enemies. Minas Tirith’s shining star had traveled to Rivendell, and Denethor received not the prize he so eagerly sought, but a corpse instead.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Boromir was dead and all that was left to him was a person he didn’t really like.  
  
“Sir, should I send your son in?”  
  
Denethor ran hands through graying hair, two months beyond the need for a trim, pushing aside the vision of his eldest’s confident smile. _Gone. Forever gone._ “What is he doing here? I have not sent for him. He’s supposed to be in Ithilien.”  
  
“I know, Sir,” a neutral tone replied, the one that refused to take sides, “he does say it’s urgent, though.”  
  
“I’m sure our definitions differ on that, Beregond.” _I do not have time for his weak-willed, muddled-headed blatherings right now. If only Boromir…_  
  
Two siblings on spectrum’s opposite ends, and Denethor could not place when it had actually happened, when his youngest veered away from the path set for him to travel a disparate one from his brother. Maybe it was his mother’s early death that drove Faramir inward, seeking solace in the written word. Perhaps it was the expectation that he would follow in the footsteps of Boromir, who excelled at everything he attempted, that pushed the younger brother to the back of the crowd. Outside influence was also a possibility to explain Faramir, who was always more apt to learn at Mithrandir’s elbow than his father's teaching on the workings of Gondor. Denethor did not know how, or why, whose fault – except his own - but one day he realized, as he stared at the young man, now his sole heir, Faramir a stranger to him.  
  
“What should I tell him, Sir?”  
  
He always found some way to aggravate and anger. Denethor almost believed that Faramir derived some perverse pleasure at seeing his father vexed. Since a young teen, and developing a voice of his own, father and second son were always at odds, big things – college majors for one, or little things – the switch to free range eggs in Minas Tirith’s kitchens an inexplicably heated argument. All under one roof still, Boromir would run interference between the two, when off to college, however, his steady influence had been sorely missed, for more often than not, the two would be at loggerheads, constant and contemptuous, their shouting matches reaching eardrum bursting levels. If Faramir had dabbled in the regular young man pranks of beer and girls, driving too fast and maxing out the credit cards, Denethor could have handled that, he had survived Boromir’s teens. But, their fueds were over intangible things like political views and environmental issues, philosophy and religion, all things Denethor gave but a passing thought to, and all things Faramir held close. When it was Faramir’s turn at college, no respite from the contentiousness, trenches dug long before, their fights had continued over phone and email.  
  
When the dark times began, Denethor remained absent, parenting withered, concentrating instead on exigent matters, defense of the homefront and searching out enemies. Meanwhile Faramir divided his time between doing administrative work, a begrudging favor for father, and pouring through all the old files kept deep down inside of Minas Tirith’s vaults. Denethor had let him be, he was out of his hair. Out of sight meant out of disappointed mind.  If he had it to do all over again, however, he would have curtailed Faramir’s access to the ancient texts after the discovery of his secret weapon and the crumbling piece of parchment revealing Gondor’s ultimate salvation, and before the other inchoate writing, unearthed and partially translated on the heels of Rivendell’s summons, that caused the worst argument of their stormy relationship.

“About Faramir, Sir?”  
  
Those pleading, accusatory words from his second son’s lips could never be erased.  
  
_“It’s a curse, Father, one that only an injudicious man would seek to possess. Do not do this! Do not send my brother for the sole purpose of obtaining it. It is called Isildur’s Bane for a reason. Do not sacrifice Boromir for your own greed!”_  
  
Denethor had dismissed Faramir’s warning hotly, banishing him to Ithilien for the temerity to call his motives for Gondor into question. Instructions were to stay there indefinitely. And now Faramir was back without being called or prior notice.  
  
_Why did he come? To say, ‘See, Father, you sent Boromir on your fool’s errand and now he’s dead?’_  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Sigh heavy with annoyance and Hennessy, Denethor snatched up his empty glass. “Send him in, but tell him to make it quick,” the key in his breast pocket fingered frantic. _I should get back. Disaster could be at our very doorstep._ “I’m busy.” Scotch decanter bottomed up into highball, waiting for the son he secretly would trade for the other.

  
  
*******  
  
  
  
“Peregrin! Keep up!”  
  
From gawking at the enormous black marble statue of some dour-faced, long-haired dude he turned away to race after Gandalf. “This place is huge!” Stretching neck to see to the tops of the towers that were so tall he didn’t think even if he lay on his back and looked straight up he could see it all, “I mean it’s the biggest fucking place I’ve ever seen!”  
  
“Watch your mouth!” Admonishment sharp, “none of your ruffian language here.”  
  
“Sorry,” downcast eyes, “Best behavior and all that sh - stuff.”  
  
“Beyond even that, Peregrin. Denethor is not a man to be trifled with. He brooks no insubordination or sass.”  
  
Pippin stepped onto the escalator rising to the third - _or was it fourth? -_ floor. “But, you said he was just temporary. When Aragorn gets here -"  
  
“Strike that out of your repertoire, also. There will be no mention of Aragorn. As you can well imagine, the idea of Denthor’s removal from office is a touchy one.”  
  
“Check,” a mental note made, “no Aragorn.”  
  
“And while we are on the subject,” Gandalf weaving through the milling crowd with ease, “It would be wise not to say anything about Frodo. The less said on that, the better.”  
  
“Gee, anything else?”  
  
“Well, actually, yes.” He paused at the elevator that would take them to the top of the seven stories in the city, up to the area named The Citadel, to meet with the CEO. “Keep Boromir out of the conversation at all costs.”  
  
“Why, for Pete’s sake?” That was one thing he could speak about with authority. Boromir’s skill, Boromir’s bravery, Boromir’s sacrifice.  
  
Sneaking a glance over at the two black-suited, sunglasses sporting monoliths guarding the elevator, Gandalf’s voice lowered close to nothing, Pippin straining to hear. “Because Denethor is Boromir’s father, and news of his beloved son’s death may not have reached his ears. Do you want to be the one to tell him?”  
  
Pippin blanched. “No, no I don’t.”  
  
“Good. See that he doesn’t hear it from your lips.”  
  
“So, that’s no Aragorn, no Frodo, no Boromir,” while safely diplomatic and demur, Pippin’s list a tad light on conversational topics, “Can I at least discuss the weather?”  
  
Innocuous small talk nixed, too. “Best if I do all the talking, Peregrin.”  
  
Once on the elevator, a few moments of reflection on surroundings granted at last. The trip down to Minas Tirith had been quick; from PA to this section of the Virginia Appalachia took only three hours, most of which he had spent asleep wrapped in dreams of Merry. His first sighting of the White City most impressive, the towering stone nestled neatly back into the mountains. Bigger and grander than DC, the other white city, which he had visited on a eighth grade civics field trip, though it was not until he found himself trailing after Gandalf as the old man rushed from level to level, to level to level to level, that a feeling of foreboding crept into Pippin’s mind.  
  
Really should have recognized the city right off, been here before in one horrific sense.  Only then it had been engulfed in flames and his mind had been more intent on the giant Eye than sightseeing. But, he remembered the feeling of desperation emanating from the White City in his Palantir vision, and, now that he was actually here, the massive archways and walls hovering about, above and around, that feeling was nearly palpable. Minas Tirith was in mourning for something lost, something stolen, a lump in Pippin’s throat for what might never be again.  
  
The elevator broke out above the buildings and into the sad daylight, the city splaying out at his feet.  
  
“What’s that?” Nose pressed against the glass.  
  
“Minas Morgul,” Gandalf’s mood foreboding, “A nasty place and one you do NOT wish to visit. Mordor lies just to the east.”  
  
Black. Dark. Bad. Those were the words that sprang to Pippin’s mind as the elevator climbed higher. _Minas Morgul._ Its evil seeming to reach out nasty fingers toward him. Above the sinister towers, low hanging sooty clouds stalked, the city in shadows, squatting and watching. A chill iced its way up spine. _Mordor. And that’s where Frodo and Sam are headed? Jesus H Christ!_  
  
“Come on, Peregrin!”  
  
Minas Morgul so creepy mesmerizing, the destination reached elevator stop not noticed. He rushed out of the car into a courtyard, the squint and hand shielding necessary against the gleaming white. Where the stones in the lower parts of the city were in bad need of a good pressure washing, here in the Citadel, it was impeccable, pristine enough to reflect even the most anemic of the sun’s light.  
  
“This is incredible!” A race to the wall, horizon scanned, Virginia’s piedmont rolling out, a lush carpet of the most vivid colors the autumn had to offer. “I bet you can see all the way to Tennessee from here!”  
  
Gandalf pointed off to his right. “Scottsborough is that way.”  
  
Heartstring plucked hard. _Home._  
  
Gandalf turned in the opposite direction. “And that way is Pennsylvania.”  
  
String pluck became a symphony. _Merry! Oh, god, I miss you, wish you were here, here to see this, to be with me!_  
  
“And that way…”  
  
The dark storm to the east. “Mordor.”  
  
“He will see you now.”  
  
Nodding politely to the stiff announcement, Gandalf gathered up Pippin, and walked toward the great stone steps leading into the imposing building at the apex of Minas Tirith.  
  
“That’s it! Shhhhcrap! Oh, my god! It’s real!” He couldn’t believe he didn’t see it right off. “Gandalf! You see? Oh, my freaking god! It’s the White Tree!”  
  
“Yes, Peregrin, yes, it is indeed the White Tree. Now, come along.”  
  
He circled, jumping, shouting his surprise. “It’s just like I saw! Well, not quite, ‘cause it was burning before and now it’s not. It’s just sitting there, deader than a doornail. You see, Gandalf?”  
  
The old man embarrassed at his companion’s exuberant toursity behavior. Nothing new, really. “Yes, I see, Peregrin. We all see the Tree. It stands right in the middle of the courtyard. Been doing precisely that for centuries. Time to go.”  
  
"It’s like some sort of psychic, precognition, out-of-body, clairvoyant kind of thing. This is so way cool! The White Tree!” A reach out to touch the pale bark. “Wait a – hey! Look! Gandalf, do you see -?”  
  
Collar yanked up and dragged backward, their appointment impatiently waiting. “Yes, Peregrin, I saw the Tree. Actually, I’ve seen it many times. It is white and it is dead. Thank you for pointing that out.”  
  
“But, Gandalf, wait!” Sputtering feet trying to find traction on the slick stone of the walkway. “I saw a -”  
  
Gandalf much stronger than he appeared, the struggling young man hauled up the stairs and through gigantic doors without an eyelash batted. “It is not prudent to keep Denethor waiting. And please remember, no talking.”  
  
Immediately awed into silence by the austere grandeur of Denethor’s outer office - bigger furniture than Columbia’s Dean of Students, the most impressively obvious over-compensating for some insecurity one he’d seen to date, and definitely more statutes - tongue held all the way through the pat-down for weapons. He had promised Merry he would be good, do what was asked of him and not get into trouble, and Gandalf told him no talking, so mouth clenched down tight as they were led into the conference room. He would hold his silence. For now. But, later, when he and Gandalf were alone and the gag rule lifted, then he would talk, oh, boy would he talk and tell Gandalf what he had seen, then he would speak of the single bloom on the White Tree of Gondor.

  
  
*****  
  
  
Faramir sat brooding while Mablung drove, the sting of his father’s blow long since faded, but not that of his words.  
  
_“Of all the twisted, disgusting, unnatural things to say! My son was not a rapist, and certainly not of another man! How dare you blaspheme Boromir’s name with your sick, perverted lies!”_  
  
And that was the high point of their conversation. It fell to rock bottom when Faramir spoke of the Ring.  
  
_“Do you hate me so much, Faramir, that you will do anything within your power to see me fail?”  
  
“No, of course not, Father, I -"  
  
“What did I do to deserve you? I lose my first born only to be saddled with a second son who doesn’t have the brains to see beyond his books and the crap spewed forth from that old fool!”  
  
“Mithrandir’s words are wise, Father. You would do well to understand that.”  
  
“That so called ‘professor’ has filled your head with such bunk that you would listen to his advice over that of your own -”  
  
“Islidur’s Bane is evil, Father. No one can wield it except its maker. If it could turn Boromir -"  
  
“I will not listen to those lies!”  
  
“Listen or no, Father, it is the truth. The Ring corrupted Boromir, as it did the others who have possessed it. If it is not destroyed, then it will certainly be the end of us all. Our only hope lies in one young man.”_  
  
Denthor’s sarcastic laughter still rang in Faramir’s head.  
  
_“A student? That’ s the best Elrond and Mithrandir could come up with? A puny, inexperienced boy?”  
  
“The Ringbearer has strength beyond imagining. I have seen it in his eyes.”  
  
“He’s soon to be a dead man, if he’s not there already. I hope you are satisfied, Faramir. You’ve decided the fate of Gondor and all of Arda by allowing the Ring to slip from your grasp.”  
  
“I did what I thought best.”  
  
“That was your first mistake.”_  
  
The conversation had gone about as well as Faramir had worried it would, hope his father would accept the truth dashed on the rocks of blind stubborn pride. Denethor had insulted him, railed at him, struck him, and sent him packing, not back to Ilithien and blessed obscurity, but to yet again a job best suited for another.

_One more opportunity to fail for the boss’s incorrigible son._

Out to Osgiliath and possible trouble, no contact with the city for six hours.

After the attack, a push to rebuild the old, outlying town became everyone’s favorite charity. What better way to show that Gondor would be not be broken than by restoring what had been destroyed. The sewer system was repaired first, for all life needs water. New construction on top of the rubble employed hundreds. Roads were cleared, parks sprouted, schools and hospitals appeared. Economic incentives offered to those willing to relocate to the reborn city drew thousands to New Osgiliath. Within a year, the city was bustling with activity, a slap in the face of Mordor. An achievement unparalleled, the driving force behind the project was, of course, Boromir. A sports complex, with soccer, baseball and lacrosse fields, a gym and Olympic sized swim and dive pools had just broken ground when -  
  
“Uh, oh.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Mablung, who had insisted on coming with him from Ilithien, just pointed to the road in front of their Jeep.  
  
Bodies, four to five deep, stiff with rigor and contorted into inhuman shapes, mouths and faces frozen in pain and torment. The two-lane black top was awash with blood and buzzards, a scene straight out of the most vivid of night terrors.  
  
“Dear, Eru.”  
  
Opening the car door, a gust of death assaulted his nose, bile fought back down as he approached the human stack. To his horror, mores piles, some human, some animal, dotted the road leading into New Osgiliath, which stood a few hundred yards away, mute.  
  
“I can’t – can’t,” disbelief sputtering, “This is – this is so -”

“Jesus Christ!” That was Steve – no, Stan – one of the new recruits to the city’s much depleted guard. In fact, thirty in all, Faramir’s entire company were fresh and raw, introductions quick before embarking. They gathered round their new out of the package leader shocked, tearing up, gills tinged green, but to their credit, no breakfasts were lost. “What the hell happened?”

  
Breaking off an arrow, both black and crooked found in a particularly gruesome corpse, perpetual second-in-command Mablung spat. “Orcs.”

A simple fact finding excursion to the bedroom town had turned on a dangerous dime.

“What’re we gonna’ do?” Steve/Stan again, “Can’t stand out here all afternoon.”

Six hours. Orcs come and gone? Mass murder then just leave? Or did some remain behind, ferret out the hiding, to finish Osgiliath’s human population completely? Could they still be in there, lying in wait to ambush the first responders, catch the inevitable arriving help in a obliterating crossfire?

“Reinforcements from Minas Tirith,” strength in numbers Faramir’s first choice, "how soon?”

“An hour maybe,” Mablung’s best guess, “ninety minutes.”

Too long, wasted precious minutes waiting, meanwhile…

“Are you getting this?” Faramir to Rita – Rachel? – the woman with the Smaug tattoo.

Galaxy sweeping wide the charnel house tableau, “Damn right I am.”

A tiny question from the rear, “Are they, I mean, is everyone – could the whole town be dead?”

Meanwhile, if there was a single person left alive somewhere, one person lucky enough or smart enough to be spared, then potential trap or not - “Let’s go find out.”  
  
The road too littered with bodies and rubble, the company’s vehicles were stuck there just outside, walk the rest of the way in, weapons drawn, silent with dread.  
  
The large stone gates, that so recently held the bright sign, ‘Welcome to New Osgiliath. A great place to call home!’, were riddled with bullets and graffiti. In the middle, sprayed painted, a giant eye, complete with jagged lighting, watched Faramir and his people enter what was left of the city.

“Sharp eyes, open ears.”  
  
Nothing moved except the hollow breeze flapping café curtain and crayon drawings, a unicorn…Iron Man…a smiling stick figure family tumbleweeding by. Just after Noon, lunch hour, bustling streets the expectation, things to do, people with places to go now were crowded into doorways, the Lossmarch Nail and Tanning Salon…Belfalas Realty…Lebennin Bakery and Deli, citizens stuffed into parked cars, dumped into alleyways, the deceased, who had sought a fresh start with the promise of New Osgiliath sat, silent stares of the dead. The city had fallen for a second time.  
  
“Need to - what was that?”  
  
Faramir and entire company spun around at the sound, guns out and -  
  
“Hold your fire!”

A cat, kitten, really, the tiny calico scurrying out from underneath a car, disappearing down a street grate, the only living thing. So far.  
  
Motioning with his drawn weapon, the troops fanned out behind Faramir, nervous ticks and blinks all around, moving further into the desolation, wary, on edge, stepping over bodies, feet crunching on broken dreams. The air about them October chilly, but soon he was blinking away the sweat pouring into eyes. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be doing this. Just like in Ilithien, he felt spectacularly unqualified to carry what perverse nepotism had thrust in his hands. He had read, of course, understood the theory of leadership. Then there was the training both father and brother had insisted upon. A character building tradition, all the Steward men, in times of peace or war, from Kabul straight back to Yorktown, in some capacity had served the greater good. The ROTC classes in strategy he had enjoyed very much; that was a mental exercise, imagining the what if and what now, finding the peaceful compromise. The field maneuvers he could have done without, though, too many nights and weekends playing at solider in tents swapping ridiculous stories instead of library and study. He had listened to all of his instructors, absorbed every detail of what a field commander should do in any given situation, then he had graduated, put knowledge to the back of his closet, and should the need ever arise, counting on the more militarily inclined to led men into danger. Sickeningly, that was not so anymore.  
  
“Do you hear  -” Mablung from Faramir’s left, “what is that?”  
  
“No goddamn cat, that’s for sure,” a quip from the back.  
  
Faramir closed his eyes to - the sound still far off, but moving closer with incredible speed…the sound of machinery, engines whining in protest of their misuse, in just the few seconds spent listening grown louder and frighteningly distinguishable.

_Oh, shit._  
  
“Back! Back!” shouts, commands, arms waving big his company into action, “back to the -”  
  
The first man went down with a shriek, bullets strafing Main Street. Second and third fell to arrows from the top windows of the Arda Bank and Trust. Squatting and taking precious little time to aim, Faramir dispatched both orcs. He did not wait to see their bodies fall.

“Watch out for -”  
  
Three Black Hawk helicopters appeared above the low skyline, a wedge pattern, tight, lethal, all bearing down on Faramir’s men.  
  
“Nazgul!”  
  
They spoke in unison, the screech cutting through the sounds of gunfire and pain, bullets rending the air. One man after the other was pushed forward by the force of bullets ripping through flesh, to the ground, face first, dead.

They had, _he_ had indeed walked right into a trap.  
  
Black Hawks smashed into New Osgilitah, the cacophony of wind as they passed, down through the street, awnings and street lamps collided, trash and bodies tossed the same, so fast, so furious.

“Holy shit!” Mablung’s usual rock steady hands fumbled with empty, then full, ammo cartridges, “This is fucking -” pinpoint accuracy, the orc in the alleyway opposite dispatched, “- insane! Need to call for reinforcements.”

_And bring more out to the slaughter?_

Retreat no longer an option, out in the open, anything that moved would be cut down instantly, from helicopters, from snipers. But, to stay here, spread out and confused, ducks and fish both, sitting in barrels, from the air or door-to-door. So, death, would it be sooner or –

Nazgul screeched, banking around for another pass. They had 20 – 30 seconds tops to –

_How can I save these –_

Split second decision, Hell’s snowball chance better than – “A defensible position, we need – there,” ground floor of Melian’s Secret, ladies’ intimate apparel shop, “we’ll shelter in place there. I’ll direct the men, you call for back-up.”

“Right,” Mablung on comms to Minas Tirith immediately, “May-day, may-day!” And Faramir on comms to the company – “Move to Melian’s, across the street, quick, watch your – hello? _Hello?_  Can anyone – they’re not working!”

“Shit! Jamming our fucking -” headset thrown in disgust, an explosion of tiny plastic bits.

A split nanosecond decision. “Phone. Find a signal.” Mablung’s hesitation shoved into action, “GO!”

The Nazgul’s triumphant return announced by the obliteration of town square fountain.

Snowball’s chance a steaming puddle now. Could they hold out until – “Get down! Take cover! Don’t move!” Man pinned down under bus stop bench, three behind a parked garbage truck, was that Terrance, or was it Terrell, pressed flat in the barbershop doorway? Did they hear him, shelter in place shouts heard over the carnage? Had to be sure, had to do everything he could to help his – “Stay down! Hide!” Faramir running as fast as his hunkering allowed, in and around, getting closer, gaining ground, popping into the open – “Help is on the -”

Hurled back, sidewalk, Prius and Faramir, orc-tossed grenade taking a bite out of Imrahil Avenue, landing smashed, twisted and stunned, watching jagged, burning and horrified as it became a mad dash, at the perceived loss of their leader, the understanding the disintegration of their mission, abandoning protocol and safety, every person running, leaping, tripping, falling over corpses in the panicked exit of the city.  
  
“Get down!” No one listened or chose not to, ambushed, out gunned, Minas Tirith’s freshest finest in full routed retreat. “Dammit!” even worse choice – be the foolish brave and stay, or follow their lethal exodus. “To the Jeeps!”  
  
Defense completely abandoned in favor of self-preservation, bullets pathetic pricks to Black Hawk fire power, the only cover available on the road, bloated body piles.

Zig-zagging, a car here to a demolished food cart there, a teacher with her preschool class stumbling through, Faramir fled, making it out of the death pits simply because he was one of many targets. A look back to watch two more men flip and jerk out of existence.  
  
“Faramir! Come on!”  
  
Mablung had reached the Jeep first, started it, and he stood in the open door, waving and shouting. “Come on! Come – sweet Jesus – RUN!”  
  
Did not need to turn to know what stalked right over his shoulder.  
  
“Faramir! Fucking -”  
  
Mablung fell, a bullet right between the eyes.  
  
The Nazgul began to tease, hovering over the crawling wounded, a cat with trapped mouse, waiting while the desperate scratched a way forward, safety fingertips away, then open fire, shredding already damaged flesh. A screech of victory would always follow.  
  
The skies of Osigiliath resounded with them.  
  
The Jeeps, those with drivers alive enough to function, half a dozen sped away, two helicopters banking off to follow. Reaching his with only the minor injuries of a couple of grazed bullets and blast bruises, Faramir was forced to kick Mablung, his guide in all things Ilithien, his confidante in all things personal, his _friend_ in all things things, out of the way to reach the driver’s seat.

“Sorry, so, so sorry.”

Slamming into reverse, gas pedal punched, tires spinning and wailing. Never slowed down, not even when he bumped up and over the bodies of fallen comrades, just threw up in the passenger seat and kept driving. Hands wet with sweat and blood slipped across the steering wheel, Jeep veering off left, off road, straight toward the woods.

“What did I – how many -”

This small tree line gave scant cover, a brief respite, Nazgul skimming the tops, angry screeching for the few that, momentarily, got away. Not much, a couple of shuddering breaths worth, just enough time to remember the brave, replay failed command, regret no familial reconciliation, and grip tighter, before bursting out, going 90, Black Hawks closing, heading for Pelennor Fields, 4 miles of wide open between him and Minas Tirith.

Too bad he’d never make it.  
  



	4. 4

 

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter Four

 

 

  
  
“You remember the time we stood in line at Radio City? Six hours just to see _The Force Awakens._ Had chairs and a cooler and Pippin even brought his portable DVD and we watched _Phantom Menace_. Then you and Merry acted out the fight between Obi Wan and the red and black dude. Remember that? You guys got a standing ovation and enough change for popcorn and shit. God! That was a great day! You’ve got to remember that, Frodo.”  
  
Rocking back and forth, Sam sat on the floor.  
  
“Or that time when the power went out and it was cold, so fucking cold! And you tried to make grilled cheese sandwiches with those food warming things left over from Bilbo’s last party. Wake up, Frodo. You decided the sink was the best place to fire them up. Stainless steel blackened, set off the fire alarm, soggiest damn sandwich I ever had, but I ate ‘cause you made it. Then we huddled on opposite sides of the couch under tons of blankets telling most embarrassing moments, best childhood memory, worst day at school. And even after the power came back on, we stayed right there marathoning _The Walking Dead_. Frodo? You remember that?”  
  
Nothing else existed for Sam except what he held.  
  
“Or the time you got so drunk on that sake Merry bought you didn’t even remember you had your keys right there in your pocket. Woke up half the neighborhood shouting up from the street to let you in. Never told Bilbo, like I promised. Just look at me, Frodo, just look at me. Had to get rid of the rugs in the bathroom after that night. That was the first time you kissed me, right here, on the cheek. Then I held you while you puked all that expensive rice crap back up. A few dinners and lunches, too. You kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘You’re fucking great, Samwise’, and I carried you to bed. You had one hell of a hangover the next morning. Don’t think Bilbo believed the flu story I told him. Look at me, Frodo.”  
  
The air rank, the stone hard and biting, but Sam did not care. He refused to let go.  
  
“Remember the fireworks at Coney Island, or the Mets game where I caught the fly ball? The concerts in the park or dinners out on the escape? Frodo, please wake up. Oh, God, I remember it all ! Every moment, every second since you came into my life. I don’t want that to be all that’s left. Frodo, wake up!”  
  
Sam held the limp body to his chest, tears tracking down a filthy face.  
  
“Each look and sigh and smile I remember. Each kiss, oh, god, your lips on mine that first time! I can still feel them! Your body, so warm, so hard, against me. Then in Rivendell, when you took off the towel, I thought I would have a heart attack right there! I couldn’t believe it! You wanted me! ME! Frodo, please don’t let go. And when I held you close, like lovers, not just friends, you were so perfect in my arms, so real, so right. I cried that night, didn’t let you see me, but I did, ‘cause I had it all right there with me, everything I needed and wanted, right there beside me. Don’t go!”  
  
Sting lay abandoned, thrown aside, covered in puke green slime that had poured forth from the monster when Sam had rammed the blade home, deep into its belly. Long gone now, slunk back into the mountain to die, the spider, the shithead, orcs and Ring, not one thought spared, all about Sam ceased to matter. The lifeless body of his lover _was_ his world.  
  
“So perfect, that’s what you are, Frodo, all the best rolled up into one. And I can’t live without that. Not anymore. I waited so long, so long, to be with you, and it can’t be over. No fucking way! Frodo, don’t leave me! Wouldn’t have mattered where you went, where Gandalf sent you, I would have walked right behind just to be with you. Followed you anywhere, for as long as it took, as long as you wanted to keep going, I would be there. By your side, that’s where I belong. Always. You are my life and my heart, Frodo, don’t leave me! What am I without you? I can’t be without you! I’m nothing! I don’t want to be alone, Frodo. Don’t leave me here alone! Don’t go where I can’t follow!”  
  
Sam shook the lifeless body, the head shifting within its straight jacket, empty and dull.  
  
“How did it come to this? How did we get to this place? Frodo, why? Why did this happen? Why, goddammit, WHY?”  
  
Voice cavern bounced, echoing out to nothing, the stone offering no comfort for his wail.  
  
“They asked too much, too fucking much! And look what happened! It took you! That thing took you from me! I hate it! I _hate_ it!”  
  
Throat raw, Sam shrieked his anguish to nobody.  
  
“And I hate Elrond for asking you, for Gandalf and Aragorn and all the rest for letting you take it, carry it. I fucking despise Gollum and I hate everything and everybody and I hate myself, for not taking good enough care of you. Oh, Frodo, I’m so sorry, sorry, I failed you, Frodo, I failed!”  
  
Gently, Sam brushed a stray web free of the pale face, not wanting any speck to mar the beauty he held.  
  
“What do I do now? Frodo, tell me, please. Where do I go? I’m lost, I don’t have you anymore, and I don’t know what to do. Frodo, what do I do now?”  
  
No advice came, only the blank stare of blue.  
  
“You’re here, than this is where we’ll stay. Right here, not going anywhere without you. Frodo, I need you so much!”  
  
A hum, a new sound in this sepulcher, reluctantly Sam tearing eyes away from his love to see -  
  
“Oh, fuck, no! Not now! No fucking way!”  
  
He pushed off the floor, dragging Frodo up with him. Arms too weary, however, too abused to hold up his burden, the body slipping from his rubbery grasp.  
  
“Fuck! No, come on, Frodo, we’ve got to go! They’re coming! Help me, Frodo! Come on, help me! We’ve got to go!”  
  
Hisses and guttural voices traveled down through the passageway, down through the only other way that wasn’t the Tunnel out of the cavern. Latching on to the feet, Sam yanked, Sam struggled, straining and grunting, Sam dragging the body toward the other way, back to Hell. Only part way across before he - long shadows moved on the walls just outside.  
  
“Fuck! I can’t do this, can’t get you out. Shit! Tell me what to do, Frodo! I can’t do this alone!”  
  
Sting blazed, the voices stronger and deeper, escape time running out. A decision, the toughest of his life.  
  
“I am so sorry, Frodo, failed you again. Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me! But, I can’t get you out. Not right now, not before they come. Don’t hate me, please!”  
  
Kneeling beside Frodo, Sam rolled him over into a corner, along with other discarded carcasses, arranging them as cover.  
  
“You just hide, hide, just like this until they’ve gone. Then I’ll come back to get you, come back and we’ll figure this whole thing out. Don’t hate me, Frodo, please! This is the best that I can do.”  
  
Voices just around the corner.  
  
A kiss to cold lips. “I love you, Frodo.” A desultory heave up, Sam wobbling over to retrieve Sting, looking for a quick solution, a place to hide. There - a perfect spot, not too high or low, big enough for one, but not two, cut into the stone wall of the cavern. He would stay in there until the intruders left, watching over Frodo from inside. Shamed for running away like this, but it was the only way, he knew that, couldn’t very well help Frodo if he were taken by the orcs. The only dealings he had had with them, the parking garage, he remembered well. The orcs were bad, they served the Dark Lord.

“Only a few minutes, Frodo, less even, only a few – I promise.”  
  
With the thrown shadows on the passageway wall shrunk down to orc size, the voices distinct, three, four, coming fast, he stopped, turning to check on his ruse - looked like just every other dead thing lying about the cavern. But, he wasn’t like everything else, he was Sam’s heart. He was Frodo Baggins. He was the -  
  
“Ring.”  
  
Sam scrambled back to Frodo, rolling him over, digging at the sticky web to find -  
  
“Right in here, boys!”  
  
“And what do you expect to find in there? Gold?”  
  
“Never know what She’s found. Just checking everything like we was told.”  
  
Chain wrenched off, the unexpected weight of that simple gold band pitching him forward, sprawling surprise across the body.  
  
“You can go in there if you want. I’m stay right here.”  
  
“Suit yourself, but you never know just where She is. Love’s to get her victim’s alone -”

Ring shoved in pocket, Sam crawling to his hole, something pricking at mind’s edges…a noise…a whisper…

“- if you know what I mean.”  
  
“I’m coming with you.”  
  
…burden dragging him down - reach, would he, in time, could he reach, before they – arms so tired, muscles pushed beyond – pull, pull up into the – legs trembling with –

“Welcome to Shelob’s lair!”

\- feet tucked in as orcs arrived.

Size grossly miscalculated, not big enough for one, more like a half. Deep, yes, a good two feet lag time from hole edge to being discovered. But, height squishing him into a contorted knees in teeth ball, stifling hot, Sting literally a sword in his side, and the wall at his back bumpy and sticky and catching at clothes and hair, this hole the stuff that breeds small space phobias. He could see, though, see straight out, a clear view of what was important, and since he wouldn’t need to be turkey stuffing for long, intruders here and gone quickly, a few minutes in the compacted fetal family jewels crushing position tolerable. Barely.  
  
“Ah, there’s nothing here but dried out dead things,” orcs poking and prodding and - “a waste of time, if you ask me,” and kicking the exact pile where -  
  
_Don’t you touch him! Don’t you dare touch –_ great, one of the fuckers moved, now blocking his view. If he shifted a little to the…lean forward some… maybe he could – _don’t you fucking touch -_  
  
Then an orc just happened to look right, directly at -  
  
_Shit!_ Back, lean back, as far back as he, farther, bumpy wall bowing out. _Did it – did it – shit!_  
  
Unfortunately, it did. The face cruel and ugly, stuck in the opening, misshapen with a mouth full of broken, brown teeth. It slobbered, then spit, green mucus splattering against hole’s wall, Sam watching it trickle down, two slug-slimy trails glistening in the beam of the orcs flashlight.  
  
_Go away, go away and leave us alone! You fuckers, leave us alone!_  
  
It took one step closer, leaning in, only a few inches, he could see the black eyes.   
  
“Here now, you found something?”  
  
Another grotesque face came into Sam’s view. This one had little splotches of red smashed onto its face, a nose that went sideways and a scar that divided it all in half. The eyes were the same, though, just as bleak and emotionless as the other. They blinked, staring into Sam’s refuge.  
  
Flashlight brought around, the harsh beam pointing straight into the - “Thought I saw something.”   
  
Hand shoved in mouth to stifle the whimper, smaller still, knees by ears. _Please, no, no, don’t find me, go away, just go away, god, please, don’t find me!_  
  
“Anything?” The response a grunt.  
  
_Hide! Hide! Just go! But, where? Nowhere to go! Fuck! Please, no, please, god, please, just go away!_  
  
The orc knelt down, squinting into the hole, flashing his light around and around the opening. “There’s something in there, I can hear it breathing.”  
  
So, Sam stopped.

A misshapen hand reached in, three fingers and a blob scuttling around, across the stone, closer…closer…”Let’s see if I can catch -” closer…

_Oh, shit, oh, shit, fuck, oh –_ primal fear grabbed smooshed balls and ran, jerk away, violent shove back and –

_GO!_

The wall that wasn’t gave, crumbling away, and he did not think, only turned and scrabbled away as fast as the size of the hole, exhausted body and the Ring allowed.

“There was something, but it’s gone now. Probably a rat and I fucking hate….”  
  
_Faster! Go, just leave, get out, run away, fuck, go faster, faster!_ Didn’t know where, only why, Sam blindly rushing forward, a doggy style panic of knocked knees and abused palms, Sting’s blue not sufficient to force back the pitch black, Galadriel’s gift lost in the spider fight, fear trusting not to meet a dead end – or worse – and that the mountain would remain solid beneath his –

“Ssssssshiiiiiiii -”

It didn’t.

Fell face first, down a small chute, skidding and bouncing until he came to a stop, hitting the bottom with a thud.

_Am I – are they –_ a long minute counted down by each no pursuit so far second – _did I –_

At the bottom, he remained alone in the semi-dark.  
  
_I got away! Fucking A! I did it!_ “Fuck you! Fucking fuck  - ow!” Add the new pains – elbow he slammed and ass he landed on – to the never ending list.  
  
The light faint, as was Sting, but enough for orc escaped Sam. He sat panting, allowing the adrenaline to seep out of bones. It left him weak, shaky and slightly nauseous, listening to the thump of racing heart, exhilaration, then exhaustion, one bleeding into the other. Crazy happy to be alive, content to be where ever this was, chilled by the stone, fucking freezing really - except one tiny spot.  
  
Digging down, he pulled out the chain, holding it up. The Ring twisted – first one way, then the other – settling finally as a gold ‘o’ before his eyes. Even in the almost nonexistent light, it sparkled.  
  
He had viewed it many times, first with Bilbo’s absent twirling, then Frodo’s clutching. But, he had never see it this way before, held by his own hand.  
  
_Me the Ringbearer, that’s some shit, huh?_  
  
Held high and brought up to his face, the cause of all his troubles and pain inspected close. It didn’t seem possible that something this small could be the reason. Just a ring, right? Not even set with diamonds or anything. Just a ring. Like a wedding ring. Or an eye staring at him. It hung so close, so near he could feel heat on his nose, even hear the slightest of hums. The object of desire of great and small, and it was now his.  
  
_The Ring is mine._  
  
No conscious thought, consequences never weighted, gut reaction only, he reached up and grasped the Ring, pressing its warmth into his -   
  
_The ground beneath feet is…ground. Real ground. Dirt and grass, not the cold stone of the mountain. And it’s warm. Sam lifts his face to the open blue sky, a sight for sore soul, drinking in the sun’s offering. The air about him clean and fresh, the breeze tainted not with death, or stink. Only sun and life. And hot dogs.  
  
Hot dogs?  
  
Eyes open to a crowd. A huge crowd. A fucking huge crowd, and they’re all chanting his name.  
  
“SAMwise. SAMwise. SAMwise. SAMwise.”  
  
Spinning around, he beholds a stadium full of people. Not just people, but fans, Mets fans, and he is standing in the middle of Shea stadium, the world waiting for his wind-up.  
  
“Oh, my fucking god.”  
  
He had played ball when he was a kid, even on a team when he was in high school. But, never the pitcher. No, not fast enough, too stocky, always the catcher, the one with the body big enough to stop wild pitches and block home plate. How many times had he squatted in that uncomfortable and undignified position, trapped behind the mask, wishing to be free of all the pads and gear, dreaming of being the one out there in front of the crowd, wanting to be the one they cheered, the one that got the attention and praise. And here he is, on the pitcher’s mound in a Mets uniform. He was in the Show! And the World Series the banners flying said. Deciding game of the World Series, the scoreboard reminded, bottom of the night, two outs, full count, one pitch left.  
  
“Oh, my FUCKING god.”  
  
A glance at expectant team mates. Duda nodding to him from First, a call of encouragement from Flores at shortstop, and a wave from Wright at third. Sam turns toward home plate. Mike Moustakas of the KC Royals stands just outside the batter’s box, circling the bat in the air.  
  
“Oh, my fucking GOD! They expect me to pitch to Moose!”  
  
As he lingers off the rubber, the crowd rumbles to silence. The waves of tension and goodwill soar across the field and out toward the mound. Everyone there, all eyes and a shit load of cameras, too, hung on, anticipating Sam’s next move.  
  
“OH, MY FUCKING GOD!”  
  
Sam knew, just KNEW, that he was going to throw up right there. All over the mound, all over the infield, all over national TV.  
  
“I can’t do this! What the hell am I doing here? Can’t do this! Can’t even hit the trash can let alone the strike zone!”  
  
Terror threatens to overtake him, panic paralyzing, can’t face the packed stadium of fans, the other players, the media, looks down instead, to the glove and ball swimming in sweaty hands. Surprise! They fit perfectly, snuggling into his palms, a natural extension. Further down uniform pants and cleats, both held tightly a tight body, like a second skin. A feeling grows out of the dirt, the grass, humming through the soles of his feet, singing up thighs, into belly, shouting through shoulders and bellowing out the top of head. Meant to be, destiny and fate agreed.‘This is right. Me here, me now.’  _ This _is where he belonged. And he smiles.  
  
“Alright, Samwise, let’s do this.” The scoreboard said he had a no-hitter going. “Can’t screw that up, can I?” Taking the compact ball into his right hand, Sam steps up on to the rubber. Glove brought close to his chest, right under his chin, breathing deep the aroma of leather and immortality. He eyes the catcher.   
  
Two fingers – curve ball. Sam shakes his head no.  
  
One finger and a pat of inner thigh – slider. Sam shakes his head no.  
  
Two fingers, pat, then one – change up. Sam shakes his head no.  
  
One finger, pat, one finger, pat, two fingers – fast ball. Sam nods yes.  
  
Kevin Plaweki goes down into his stance, the batter stepping to the box, digging into the dirt with his cleats, claiming his territory. The bat swings around once, twice, three times, then settles just off his shoulder.  
  
All beings, those in the stadium and those watching and listening on TV and radio, take a collective breath, the rush of sucked in anticipation of greatness probably creating a Queens vacuum. Sam raises his right leg, bringing knee as high as it would go. Pulling arm back, he rotates, stretching out his other leg, pitching arm swinging up and around, then straight out. He grunts as he throws the ball, as hard as he could, body angling forward with the effort, skidding down the side of the mound.  
  
The time between release and home plate slows, this moment of triumph or humiliation, on quarter speed, Sam watching his fast ball travel the distance, 60 feet and 6 inches in an instant, a lifetime, flying straight and true, right down the middle. The bat swings into the picture, missing the small hurtling object by mere millimeters. It continues on its path, only to be captured deep inside the catcher’s glove.  
  
Silence. A small dust cloud floats up from home plate as the umpire gesticulates ‘Strike!’ and Sam’s world erupts.  
  
The crowd deafening, horns and bells peal through the air, the field pelted with whatever those crazed fans had had in their hands at the moment of victory. The Mets had won the World Series. And Samwise Gamgee had done it for them!  
  
Tackled from all sides, he’s hauled up on team mates’ shoulders, joyously bouncing across the field to be shown to the adoring crowd. People he didn’t even know shout his name in reverence, calling him ‘Hero!’ and ‘Perfect!’ and ‘I love you, Samwise!’  
  
Can’t take it all in. It was too much. He wanted to burst. He wanted to thank each and every one of those people, tell them how wonderful it all felt, how fucking fantastic! But, first he wants to tell…to share with…who?  
  
Eyes scan the raucous crowd beneath him, but Sam couldn’t find what he was looking for. He knew it had to be there waiting for him, just couldn’t quite – something’s missing – someone. He should be happy, overjoyed, fucking ecstatic! All he has is doubt. A sea of unknown faces, all those people loving him, but that’s not what he wants now. He wants only one face  
  
“Who?”  
  
A small pebble of fear chokes down Sam’s throat, struggling to be free of the hands that hold him high, high for all the world to see that he’s a winner. But, he wants none of that now. Back on the ground, he pushes and shoves his way through the crowd. He can’t find it, it’s not there, the one thing, the most important thing he knows he needs to find. The crowd pinballs him, reaching for him, praising him, touching him, clawing at him, and he stands in their midst shouting, screaming one thing, one na -_  
  
“FRODO!”  
  
Back with a gasp, the Ring falls with a cheap tink to the stone floor.  
  
Sam had heard Its voice. It had called to him of lazy summer evenings, crisp January dawns. Of food and money and contentment, whatever he desired the Ring would provide, the voice calm and still and relentless. It soothed along Sam’s enflamed nerves, pillowing his despair.

It was calling to him now, sweet visions of All-Star games and Cooperstown induction. Or maybe the Food Channel’s most popular chef with merchandising deals and a home in the Hamptons. Fame, money, influence…or fulfillment of a wish never spoken, to family, to friends, even almost never to self, a thought to be impossible desire for one as uneducated and common, what brought him to Bag End just to be near, to tell, to share, tales of daring-do, right makes might and all the good in this world, his words on the paper, on the shelves, silly fantasy of Sam Gamgee, author. And it would be so easy, all he need do is…

However, this time he listened – truly listened – between the words of promise and gift, and there in the background the sound was not so smooth, not so pleasant, privacy robbed and dreams defiled, undercurrent malevolent, pernicious, a hate so bottomless… There underneath, Sam heard the voice of the Shadow.

“The Destroyer of all things.” Of Gandalf, of Boromir and Gollum, of light and love, this beautiful Earth a blackened husk should Sauron regain possession.

“Guess there’s nothing for it, then.”  
  
Without another thought, Sam grabbed the Ring by the chain and stood up. The light in the small chamber must be coming from somewhere, and that could be the way out. A way to Mordor, then the cracks and then to end this, now and once and for all. _The Ring is mine and I’m gonna’ torch the motherfucker._ Picking his way carefully across the uneven stone floor, Sam shoved the Ring back in jeans pocket. On second thought, he yanked it back out again, not wanting that corruption so close to his skin. The outside pocket of his jacket would be good e - hand met an obstacle, something else in there.  
  
“What the -?”  
  
Frodo’s glasses. Sam had forgotten he put the broken things in there. They were bent and smashed, twisted at all the wrong angles. Useless.  
  
In his other hand, Sam held the Ring. It hummed, solid and whole, calling Him Ringbearer and Master, singing of complete fulfillment.   _SAMwise, SAMwise, SAMwise_ He could have anything his heart desired.  
  
The Ring in his left hand. Frodo’s glasses in the right.  
  
“My heart’s desire…”  
  
The way back up, Sam handled with ease. _All the fucking practice on the Stairs._ The chute steep, but not unnavigable and he quickly retraced his escape route. _Go back, get Frodo out of this hellhole, see that he’s taken care of, then come back. Simple. Those damn orcs should be gone by now. I will get him out, then come back and destroy the Ring. Easy peasy lemon squeasy._  
  
Crawling back, Sam felt good, energized. He had a plan, one that would return him to where he wanted, needed, SHOULD be, right by Frodo. Ashamed over his hysterical flight and leaving Frodo’s side, he vowed never again to abandon his love no matter what. _I’m coming to you now, Frodo. Your Sam will take care of you, and just handle the Ring shit later._  
  
Almost back to the cavern and Frodo, Sam heard  - _Damn! Those fuckers are still there? How long was I -_  
  
“They’re all dead! Just like the last time you poked at them. Dead, dead – oh, hello!”  
  
“What? What you find?”  
  
Fear fisted up stomach. _Stay away from him! Stay away!_ He crawled faster.  
  
“Oh, now here’s a live one.”  
  
_Don’t you touch him!_  
  
“This one’s fresh. Just caught.”  
  
“Don’t like the way it’s staring at me. Don’t like all that blue.”  
  
_That blue is the most precious thing in the world, you asshole!_  
  
“Come on, help me. Grab its legs.”  
  
“You want to collect dead things, do it by yourself. Leave me out of it.”  
  
“It’s not dead. Just stunned. Grab the legs!”  
  
_Not dead? Frodo not dead? He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving! Frodo alive?_ Sam closed his eyes, searching desperately for any sign of Frodo within - soul still flat and featureless, a blank with no color, no Frodo. _Frodo alive?_  
  
“So, it’s alive. Big fucking deal. Why’d you want him?”  
  
“You really are a moron, aren’t you? How did he get in here?”  
  
“How the hell should I know! He walked!”  
  
“Walked? Walked from where? Walked INTO Mordor?”  
  
“Good point.”  
  
“Grab his legs.”  
  
Anger spurred action, Sam reaching the point of his escape only to become snagged by the pile of bones he originally took for a wall. _Damn! Get off, get off, fuck, GET OFF!_  
  
“Wonder why he came in. Stupid ass, nobody wants to get IN here.”  
  
“Not for us to figure out. That’s why we’re taking him. Taking him to the great Eye. Let It beat the answers out of him."  
  
_Oh, my God! What have I done? Samwise, you fucking idiot! Left Frodo, left him alone! The Eye, shit, taking him to Sauron!_ Not trying to move stealthily anymore, to hell with secrecy, fuck his safety and life, Sam burst out into the cavern, Sting at the ready, to get to Frodo before he could be taken. But, the orcs gone, disappeared down the passageway, Sam running, the newly, on the fly, revised plan to follow them, surprise them, confront them, kill them. Whatever it took to get Frodo back.  
  
_Frodo alive!_  
  
Too intent on his prey to watch where he stepped, Sam misjudged a place on the cavern floor. What he thought was solid rock, turned out to be a thick wad of webbing and spit, Mordor strikes again, foot falling through, body pitching forward, head cracking to the stone, and Sting clattering from his unconscious hand.  
  
  



	5. 5

 

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter Five

 

_That miscreant freelancer who sits at Rohan will never be welcome here! Gondor is mine!_   
  
Pippin shook his head attempting to banish the CEO's angry words. Dwelling on that disastrous meeting could not help him now. Now he needed calm thoughts, quiet to overcome his performance anxiety. A glance down heaved a sigh. Nothing. An affliction since he was a child, Pippin could no more do this on command than Gandalf could go ten minutes without calling him a fool. Frustration twisted stomach as just a moment ago banished thoughts swirled, of grief, of petulance, of how, yet again, his impulsiveness screwed everything up.  
  
_Sounded like a good idea at the time._  
  
It was the look of pitiable sorrow creasing the man's face as he held his son's faded and curled-edged driver's license out for Gandalf to see that had torn at Pippin's heart. Boromir's death was supposed to be a secret, and Gandalf’s no blabbing rule followed to the letter, but Denethor had known already, and would not let the subject drop no matter how often Gandalf attempted to steer the conversation back to the defense of Gondor. He kept asking question after question until all Pippin could hear and see were the screaming motorcycles and blaring gunshots of that horrific night, Boromir's blood spurting as he took bullet after bullet, body jerking continually as it fell at Pippin's feet. Begging for some release, truth poured out unchecked.  
  
“Boromir died trying to save my life and that of my partner. Saruman's orcs killed him, and I am so sorry, Sir.”   
  
The words hung in the air of the conference room, as bleak and thin as the white marble columns standing in mute testament to Gondor's almost certain future, Denethor waiting for more, more detail, more explanation, more anything that could give him comfort. But, Pippin had none to offer the grieving father, no words to ease the man's pain, only an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy and shame for not acknowledging Boromir's sacrifice before this.   
  
“I know it won't bring your son back, or even make up for your loss, but I'd like to try, Sir,” the words of his heart spilled out so fast, that his head did not have time to catch up until it was too late, “let me work for you. I'll do whatever you want, any job, no matter what. I'll do it, just to show you that Boromir didn't die for no reason. I'll even work for free!”   
  
Luckily Gandalf stepped in and cut the blathering off before he could offer up anything else, like limb or life or bank account pin codes. But, the damage had been done and he could not back out of his promise now. After more heated words were thrown around by the old men, Gandalf had stormed out of the conference room muttering about madness and power, not three steps out Pippin was greeted by a representative of the company, employment offer actually taken seriously, and escorted down to Human Resources to begin the long process of becoming a part of  Arda, Inc., Gondor branch.   
  
A stack of papers had plopped down in front of his now regretful eyes. The psych test had been a breeze, a bubbled in Christmas Tree, and the essay on what he could bring to the company became a 500 word bullshit session on the virtue of corporate cohesiveness, bullet points recalled from a forced to watch by Econ professor Ted Talk. The transcript requirements, as well as the three letters of recommendation, were waived due to the circumstances, but Pippin could bypass neither the fingerprinting, nor the background check, (they’d find only one _tiny_ arrest for destruction of private property, the smashed pumpkins of a Senior Halloween prank, his idea, and now legendary at Stonewall Jackson High). That left only one step: the drug test. The empty cup sat on the chrome shelf, mocking him.   
  
Rolling his shoulders, Pippin knew he would never fill the cup unless he relaxed. And he would never relax as long as his mind reran this morning's unpleasant and foolish events. He needed to clear his head and concentrate on happy times. That brought him immediately to one place.   
  
“Merry.”   
  
A naughty thought drew on a naughtier grin, the vision of his lover so clear. That goofy smile, the sparkling blue eyes, the perpetual three-day stubble, the messy hair, mind’s eye undressing down to enjoy the view of naked torso and rock hard abs, arms decorated with a myriad of tattoos. Those arms wound around his back, thighs and ass contracting as Merry pushed up, the soft brush as he exhaled with pleasure, the brown sheets accentuating Merry's tan as he arched into -   
  
_Brown sheets? We don't own any brown sheets. Why would I - only brown sheets we've ever slept on were in -_  
  
Heart sunk and lonely tears stung at eyes’ corners.   
  
_Rohan. The Palantir. Separation._ Definitely the wrong moment to recall. _Something else, another time. Treebeard’s place? No, that brings Estella into the picture. The Institute? No, Sam interrupted that. Go back, further back before this whole damn thing began._   
  
Merry catalogue flipped through until he came to a section before Bilbo's party, before he had ever heard of or seen the Ring. He settled into a very vivid memory, simple, yet filled with Merry. _Ah, yes, this should get the plumbing working…  
  
Sam outdid himself. Hickory braised salmon, wild rice, spinach soufflé, sautéed mushrooms with pearl onions, Caesar salad, croissants, complimented with a crisp white wine, and a blackberry linzertorte for dessert. He had even pulled out the linen tablecloth, and set the table with Bilbo’s heirloom china and silver. All to celebrate an achievement in which he did not share. The meal is a celebratory one, the first year of law school now history and the three students at the table surviving all with 4.0's. Sam is deflecting every compliment thrown his way, beaming with pride at Frodo._   
  
Pippin sighed, memories leaning against the bathroom wall. _God! Sam's cooking!  
  
Content to allow the Columbia students to complain loudly about professors, Sam excuses himself from the table to begin the clean-up. Frodo insists on helping. Merry and I are alone. He waits only a second after them leaving, pouncing on me, landing a hard kiss on my mouth. I'm surprised as hell and start back from his touch. We've been lovers for over a year and a half now, but never talked about any of it with Frodo and Sam. Our relationship, our business. But, tonight Merry doesn't care. He comes after me again, with teeth and tongue and I can't tell him no this time. I open my mouth, welcoming him in._   
  
Bows furrowed in concentration, could almost feel the hands running through his hair, capturing the back of his neck, pulling him forward, the chair tipping over, hitting the floor with a splat.   
  
_Sam and Frodo rush in from the kitchen. Sam's got on old lady yellow gloves and Frodo's tied an apron around his waist. I giggle, looking over the tabletop, at the picture of 'domestic bliss'. I should just go ahead and tell them to stop the tap dancing and admit they're crazy about each other, but, for once, I keep my mouth shut. Just like ours, Frodo and Sam's love life is none of my business. Merry is wrestling still on the floor, swearing streak blue, and I giggle louder. Sam quietly removes the wine bottle. Merry emerges from his match with the chair, an excuse on his lips for why he and I must go. Before dessert, before Xbox challenge, before – right now! A made up meeting first thing in the morning. Such bullshit, but the guys don't have time to protest 'cause Merry is dragging me out the door and down the steps to the car. I can feel the heat of his body where his hand touches mine and my dick wakes up._   
  
“Hey! You OK in there?” A concerned voice from the other side of the door.  
  
“Mmm hmmm, perfect.”   
  
_We barely make it to the car parked in the alleyway behind the Shire. So damn grateful that Merry drives an SUV as I dive into the back. My khakis hit the steering wheel, boxers land somewhere on the floorboard. Merry pins me to scratchy carpet, and Oh, fuck! He's doing that thing with his tongue, right there in my ear. He knows what that does to me. That's why he's doing it, dipshit, just to hear me beg. But, I won't, not this time, won't give him the satisfaction. I'll just lie here with his tongue in my ear, his hands pinching the shit out of my nipples, his crotch rubbing into mine. Nope. Silent. No sound. Nothing.  
  
“Merry! Please!”   
  
I'm such a fucking wimp! But, I don't care, 'cause he's moving down, crawling down my body, licking and kissing and fucking BITING my nipples now!   
  
“Merry! PLEASE!”   
  
He stops, then settles in between my legs, rubbing thumbs up the inside of my thighs and I’m jumping, my dick is jumping, and I'm about ready to knock the shit out of him if he doesn't do something right now!   
  
“Merry, dammit, now!”   
  
He's smiling up at me, that 'eat shit' grin of his, then he blows right across my -   
  
“Fuck! I can't stand - so hard, so - I want it, Merry!”   
  
“What do you want, Pip?” he's saying, tickling my dick with a fingertip, “Tell me, tell me what you want.”   
  
I'm thinking it's pretty damn obvious considering I'm about to shoot my load all over his face. “Merry! Don't tease! Please! I want it!”   
  
“Say it.”   
  
“Don't want to play a fucking game!” I shout, sitting up, but Merry shoves me back down.   
  
“Tell me,” he's whispering into my open mouth, licking my lips, “Tell me you what you want.”   
  
Holding me now, my dick is in his hand, but he won't squeeze it, won't jerk on it, he only rubs it softly, like it's gonna break or something.   
  
“Tell me, Pip.”   
  
I don't want to give in, don't want to play, but I can't stand it anymore. He's teasing me, drawing circles on my stomach, barely stroking me, pushing my hips back down, laughing at me. I want it so bad!   
  
“You, you little fucker! I want you, your mouth sucking me until I fucking come all over you! That's what I want! You happy, you shit?”   
  
Merry's grinning in triumph. “All you had to do was ask.”   
  
Can't shout back, can't call him nasty names, or tell him he's a asshat for playing games, 'cause he's swallowing me whole, my entire dick right in his mouth. I can't breathe! Oh, fuck, it feels so fucking good! His tongue, the teeth scraping, sucking up, now down, SHIT! I'm loving this! Loving this! Shaking all over and he pulls his mouth - don't - to suck on my balls, right there just as good, and now I can't see! I've gone blind it feels so good! Scratching at the carpet for something to hold on to, nothing there, dammit! I reach above my head and catch the spare tire, anchoring or else I'll just melt away into nothing, my body disappearing under Merry's touch - His tongue - shit! There he goes with his tongue again! Don't protest when he bends my leg, can't breathe, he digs between ass cheeks. I know what he's gonna do, and I don't think I can handle that. Too much! Too fucking much!   
  
“Shhhh, Pip,” Merry's soothing me now, “Calm down.”   
  
But, I can't calm down, not now, now when Merry's deep throating **and** pushing his fingers - Shit! Oh, god! Fuck! I'm gonna die, right here, right now in the back of a Land Rover on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He's sucking and biting and pushing and hitting the spot and I'm crying and moaning and squirming and jerking and he's squeezing and licking and shoving and I'm bucking and screaming and explod - _  
  
Eyes snap open when body slams back against the bathroom wall. He looked down, cock still jerking out orgasm, hand still fwapping away, and the toilet seat - “Damn,” snatching at the paper to clean up his mess, “not the specimen they wanted.”   
  
But, he was certainly relaxed now, and within minutes the empty cup was filled to the brim with the right contents. Hands washed, then cold water splashing on reddened face, Pippin decided never to tell Merry that the memory of one of his blow jobs helped him piss into a cup. _Not very sexy._  
  
Vacating the bathroom after one more quick glance to check for evidence, cuffs cum free, he walked back down the hallway and placed the warm container on the secretary's desk with a flourish. “There you go. One cup of genuine Pippin pee.”   
  
Detached amusement eyed the full container, the HR assistant pushed it to the side with a pencil. “Thank you very much. You took so long, thought perhaps you had fallen in.”   
  
Flush of embarrassment, and bathroom masturbation secret, turned away. “No, just like to do a good job, that's all.”   
  
A peer down over the edge of glasses at the completely full container. “An overachiever I would say, Mr. Took.”   
  
“Glad I could oblige,” hopping up on the desk, he fiddled with a small snow globe that sent greetings from Virginia Beach, “And please call me, Pippin. Everybody does. Except Gandalf, he calls me – never mind.”  
  
“Well, Pippin,” invaded space leaned back in the chair to get the whole picture, “you're done here.”   
  
“Oh. What do I do now?”   
  
“Mithrandir gave explicit instructions for you to stay put until he came to collect you, and strict ones not to allow you to touch anything.”   
  
Snow globe abruptly set back down. “Bergil,” he read the name plate on the desk out loud.   
  
“Hmm, yes?” the assistant’s attention back on the monitor.   
  
“Hey! That's gerbil!” He picked up the plate, pointing to each letter as he spoke. “See? G, E, R…b…i…” The look withered his anagramic enthusiasm, and the plate joined the snow globe.   
  
The office fell silent, with only the click of industriousness on the keyboard. Pippin aimlessly wandered the personnel office, his mind wandering, too. _Wonder what they're going to give me? Legal department? That’d be cool, but what do I know of corporate law, couldn’t clerk my way out of merging acquisition paper bag. File clerk, then, or more like it grunt work, mail room, custodial staff, or even better, the guy who opens the doors telling folks to have a nice day. What important job could a person whose only non-intern work experience consists of the dunking booth at the First Baptist’s Harvest Festival five years running?_ He poked at the huge flower arrangement on the coffee table. The typing stopped.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
_Where the hell is that old man?_ Not quite sure what to do with his hands, absent of any tactile espression, they flitted nervously at sides for a time as he not really, for office staff appeasement only glanced at the photographs on the wall, a construction site of some kind. They worried in front as he searched the magazines looking for something of interest. Nothing there. Finally, they found a home in his baggy jeans pockets as he stared out the window to the city below.   
  
“Wonder what that is?” Question fogging up the glass.   
  
“That's the tomb of the Stewards.”   
  
“Oh!” A girly scream, and a jump when Bergil appeared right there.  
  
“All the Stewards and their families. That's where Denethor's wife is and his son as well.”   
  
“Oh.” The building, so stark and cruel, and he tried hard not to picture Boromir lying dead within its impersonal walls.   
  
“I could show you, if you like,” Bergil’s offer, and smile, entirely genuine, “though there are many more interesting sites in Minas Tirith than that old mausoleum.”   
  
_What if he comes looking for me and I'm not here? He'll be pissed as hell, that's what._ "But, Gandalf told me -"  
  
Hand on his arm. “Promise I won't bite.”   
  
Pippin marveled at the warmth of the simple touch. _He can just come find me. His fault for being so late. Besides, I'm bored!_ “That would be grand. Thank you, uh -”   
  
“Gerbil.” She winked. “Just let me get my purse.”   
  


  
*****  
  
  
  
  
It had been a good afternoon. The military museum, the botanical gardens, the Olde Main Street crammed with antique and curio shops. Tales of William and Mary swapped with Columbia exploits had both in stitches. Pippin spoke of his time volunteering in the public defender’s office, and Bergil talked about her days hiking Europe. The warm fuzzy of a long, but happy, day drifted into their conversation as they shared a drink. The Beacons, a restaurant at the top of the White City afforded its patrons a panoramic view of the field below; tall glass windows all around, the waning sun gleamed against the marble and stone spraying Autumn through the room, caressing round tables set smartly with a single bud vase and a small ad touting their newest dessert drink. Soft jazz complemented the tinkling of forks on plates, and spoons in coffee cups. A smattering of customers sat talking softly or reading the newspaper or just staring out at Virginia in October. The atmosphere was one of quiet elegance, and Bergil sipped her tea and smiled.  
  
_Let’s see how long it takes until the next time._  
  
“Fried chicken, potato salad, fried green tomatoes, buttermilk biscuits, peach cobbler, all washed down with a gallon of sweet tea.”  
  
“Yes, lunch was good, wasn’t it?”  
  
“God! Merry just doesn’t know what he’s missing!”  
  
_Ah, yes! There he is. Merry. I think that was all of a minute._  
  
“He likes to eat all that weird food, names you can’t pronounce from countries most people don’t even know exist.”  
  
“To each his own, I guess.”  
  
“Yeah, but if he’s willing to eat seaweed, I don’t think collards is a stretch. I once tried to get Merry -”  
  
_And again!_  
  
“- to eat grits. He called it spackle.”  
  
“They are an acquired taste.”  
  
“Actually went out to McDonald’s instead. Nana Banks was highly insulted. Nobody turns their nose up at her breakfast.”  
  
_Nobody except the ever present Merry._  
  
“Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. Biscuits smothered in red eye gravy. Haven’t had that since I was home last.”  
  
“Scottsboro, didn’t you say?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am, Tennessee.”  
  
“And where exactly…?”  
  
“Just this side of East Bumble Fuck. OH!”  
  
_So cute when he blushes like that!_  
  
“Sorry ‘about the language, ma’am.”  
  
“That’s alright. I’m from West Bumble Fuck myself.”  
  
_His eyes! God! What a pure shade of green!_  
  
“Think we played you in football.”  
  
“Homecoming game. Ya’ll beat us every time.”  
  
“Just love to listen to you talk. With Frodo’s upstate -”  
  
_A friend._  
  
“- Sam’s Brooklyn -”  
  
_Another friend._  
  
“- and Merry’s Philly -”  
  
_Again!_  
  
“- I almost forgot how people are supposed to sound.”  
  
_Sam, Frodo and Merry. Pippin’s friends. Pippin’s_ male _friends._  
  
“Thanks again, Gerbil, for the tour. Don’t know what I would have done with myself -”  
  
_Is he?_  
  
“- if you hadn’t offered.”  
  
_His mouth. His mouth. Damn, I would just love to see if it feels as soft and warm as it looks._  
  
“Hope you didn’t get into too much trouble with your boss, ditching work like that.”  
  
“No, told him I was entertaining visiting dignitaries.”  
  
_Is he?_  
  
“And he bought that?”  
  
“Helped that I dropped Mithrandir’s name once or twice.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, Gandalf.”  
  
_Adorable little frown! He can’t be! Can he?_  
  
“Wonder what he’s been doing all afternoon.”  
  
_Don’t really care. More interested in you._  
  
“He missed a wonderful day.”  
  
_Ah! And he gives me the perfect opening. Thank you, Pippin, thank you!_  
  
“You know, it doesn’t have to end here.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
_OK. Go for it. One soft hand placed on his, a look out of slightly lowered eyes, a sultry soft voice and…_  
  
“I bet, if you let me, I could make it a wonderful night, too.”  
  
_…and the hand slips away, his eyes go to the floor, his voice barely above a whisper._  
  
“Bergil, I -”  
  
_Why, oh, Why?_  
  
“Flattered and all, but -”  
  
_WHY, OH WHY?_  
  
“I don’t think that would be appropriate. You see, Merry and I -”  
  
_I must have a sixth sense that seeks out and finds each and every gay man within a twenty mile radius._  
  
“- well, he’s my partner.”  
  
_Gay AND taken? Well, you certainly out did yourself this time._  
  
“Hope this doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, ‘cause when Merry gets…here, I really…would… like…you to…”  
  
_Gay, taken and now he’s ignoring me. Hagen Daaz Pralines and Cream, you and I have a date with destiny tonight._  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
_If he thinks he can just change the subject from my grossly misplaced pass, well… I could kiss him for it. But, he wouldn’t like that and we are back to where we started. I hear Mr. Hersey calling my name, too._  
  
“Over there. Out on the field. Look.”  
  
_Yeah, let’s just completely forget I made an ass out of myself by looking out the window. Out at Pelennor Fields filled with patches of mud made by the last Renaissance Festival. The festival traffic and the tents and people trampling made such a mess, and now those Jeeps won’t help the poor grass at all, those Jeeps racing across from the trees, those Jeeps with black helicopters chasing them and the -_  
  
“Oh, my good lord!”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Bumping through yet another rut, Gandalf mumbled under his breath, complaints harsh and unforgiving, head smacking the ceiling of his SUV. He drove straight out across the field, right towards the carnage.  
  
One Jeep, struggling to escape, limped a few yards on four blown tires and then lurched to a stop. A helicopter filled it with bullets, the explosion pushing it up into the air to land in a fiery shred. No passengers escaped.  
  
Swerving around a huge pot hole, Gandalf swore out loud, a vicious curse in a language all but forgotten, fighting the steering wheel. Closer now, but not close enough.  
  
Canted to the side, a Jeep became scant protection for a group of men shooting in vain at their attacker. Three of the helicopters swarmed around, the dirt and grass and metal and glass flying as they pounded the weak defense.

Breaking out of the trees, a final Jeep dashed homeward, its engine blowing white smoke. It stopped its mad dash by the downed vehicle, the driver waving the men over. One by one they left the ruined Jeep for safety. One by one the helicopters cut them down, bodies twisting and jerking, forming a human corpse line as they fell. The final Jeep resumed its futile race with only one aboard.  
  
Slamming the SUV into park, Gandalf cursed again, loud and long and with lots of consonants, his body nimbly climbing to the roof. The acrid stink of burning rubber, the mind numbing wails of the all but dead, the inconceivable sight of the wanton destruction disappeared as Gandalf closed his eyes to calm, to concentrate, to reach out and connect, the veil between present and times lost, slipping away, remembering who, what, his true purpose, his true origins, to call on the Fire of Making. Raised arms sang the power of Arnor’s Fire, and he was whole again, he was Olorion again, blessed and immortal, the pure light gifted of Eru Illuvatar, the light shining out from his staff blinding, banishing darkness, restoring all -

And then it was over. Light retreated, power diminished, and according to The One’s plan, he was just a man once again, the shrieks of the thwarted Nazgul piercing the air.  
  
Three surviving Jeeps rumbled by, heading for the gates of Minas Tirith. Three Jeeps out of the twelve that left fully manned two hours ago.  
  
Ears buzzing from the sudden silence, Gandalf dropped his arms, heavy from the exertion, and opened eyes to the death wrought in such a short space of time. Plumes of black smoke rose from the burned out husks of six Jeeps, the yellow and brown grass of Pelennor fields splashed liberally with red, littered with bodies, riddled with bullets, the cry of the Nazgul in the distance.  
  
Crawling back down, Gandalf slipped back into the driver’s seat of his white Escalade, eyes stinging, ears ringing, mind and heart heavy. After a deep, body racking sigh, he put the vehicle into drive, back across the ruts and potholes, back around the wrecked Jeeps and bodies, back toward Minas Tirith.  
  
“I’m getting too old for this shit.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Faramir reeked. Of sweat and mud, of smoke and ash, of blood and death. He took a deep breath and had to swallow a gag when he got another whiff. Should be standing under a scalding shower burning away Osgiliath, searing Pelennor Fields from his flesh. Should be spending his evening with a long line of Tanqueray and Tonics, extra lime, so he could drown out the calls of the dying, the shrieks of the Nazgul, the sound of Mablung’s dead body hitting the asphalt. He should be climbing into bed, the oblivion of sleep, leaving behind the twisted corpses of those streets, the smoking husks of the Jeeps, the hollow eyes of the new widows searching in vain for husbands never coming back.   
  
Right now, he wanted nothing more than a cleansing wash, an alcohol-induced forgetfulness and an empty sleep. Then maybe, in the morning, he would be ready to face a lifetime with his memories of the stink, the sounds, the horrors this day had wrought. Just one night of no remembrances of his failure. Just one.  
  
But, Denethor had insisted on a de-briefing immediately upon his return, so here he sat, stinking up the conference room, listening to his father rant.  
  
“And you just ran? Like little children, screaming in terror? A few orcs and you sounded the retreat?”  
  
“More than a few orcs, Father.” A valiant try to keep an even tone against his father’s ridicule of the honored dead. “Osgiliath is over run. The town is dead.”  
  
“You were there for twenty minutes. How could you know for certain -"  
  
“The streets were littered with bodies, Father! Orcs shooting at us from the buildings, Nazgul strafing the ground. I hardly thought it prudent to conduct a census count!”  
  
“You could have taken up defensive positions, fought back, man to man, street by street.”  
  
“We were out-manned, out-gunned, out-everything. We had no other choice.”  
  
“So, you ran away.”  
  
A  sigh, lousy with the futility of this argument. _He refuses to understand._ “Yes, Father, we ran away. I wanted to get as many people back home alive as I could.”  
  
“Leaving our outer defenses in the hands of the enemy.” Denthor’s eyes threw daggers at his son. “There is nothing to stop Mordor now from marching straight to our doorstep.”  
  
“Send for help. Send word to Theoden and Rohan, they will surely -"  
  
Comment dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Outdated protocol has been followed, the official fax has been sent, what little good it will do. Those horse people will arrive too late to help, if at all, now that Osgiliath has been abandoned.”  
  
“All we need do is strengthen our defenses here, bolster up the White City. She will stand, Father.”  
  
“At one time that would have been possible, had a son followed his father’s request  and acquired the -”  
  
“We’ve been through all this before."  
  
“Had you not been weak and allowed the prize to slip through your fingers, my hopes for Minas Tirith would be high. But, your incompetence and weakness have left us open for attack and ripe for conquer. Sauron and all his forces will trample through our city, taking what they want, leaving nothing.”  
  
Useless, waste of time better spent on implementing his suggestions, then trying to convince his father’s brick wall. “What would you have me do?”  
  
“I would have you think like your brother. Not some puppet of Mithrandir, not some ungrateful child who turns his back -"  
  
“I have not turned against you, Father. My loyalty lies right here in Minas Tirith, my home, my family.”  
  
Denethor began to fiddle with something in his jacket pocket. “Your past actions, Faramir, have proved the contrary.”  
  
“OK,” the long forthcoming list of his misdeeds, a list that needed no voice to be remembered, cut off, “what would you have me do _now_? What can I do to show you I’m worthy?”  
  
“You can do what Boromir would have done. You can return to Osgiliath.”  
  
“You wish me to take more men back out there to die?”  
  
“Boromir would not even flinch at -"  
  
Hands slammed against the cool marble, a wall of his own hit solid.  “I AM NOT MY BROTHER!”  
  
“One of my life’s biggest regrets.”  
  
He was seven again, holding out his blue ribbon from the second grade science fair watching his father glance over his head to Boromir. He was twelve explaining his acceptance to the summer workshop at Oxford while his father smiled at Boromir. He was seventeen showing off his perfect SAT scores as his father bragged on Boromir. He was nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-eight standing, begging for acceptance and his father looked to Boromir. He was thirty-two willing to die for his home and his father dreamed of Boromir.  
  
“You wish our places to be reversed, don’t you, Father? That I was the one lying in the Tomb and Boromir was here. Don’t you, Father? You wish Boromir alive, me dead. Am I right?”  
  
“With all my heart. Yes, that is what I wish.”  
  
At that moment, Faramir wished it, too.   
  
Denethor slowly rose from the conference table, eyes canted to the floor. "I have been away from my office for far too long." With one hand in his suit pocket, he left the room.  
  
Faramir stood cold.  
  
_I tried, Father, tried to be what you wanted._  
  
Alone.  
  
_Wanted you to love me, look at me, see_ me.  
  
Truly alone.  
  
_Why wasn't it enough? Why wasn't_ I _enough?_  
  
A mother dead, a brother killed, and now a father lost.  
  
“I will go to Osgiliath," _Why don't you love me?_ “And maybe, when I return, you will be proud to call me your son.”  
  
  



	6. 6

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Six

 

  
  
Gamling tried not to listen. In fact, everyone within a fifty-yard radius was doing their damndest not to overhear the raging argument inside the big house. But remaining oblivious wasn’t exactly easy, with Theoden and his niece, each stating the opposite case rather loudly and with all the vehemence they could summon up, which was impressive, to say the least.  
  
“I don’t recall opening this subject up for discussion, Eowyn!”  
  
“But, it’s not fair! I ride just as well, if not better, than Eomer. And you’re taking him!”  
  
“Riding for pleasure is one thing. Riding into oncoming bullets is another.”  
  
“Since when does anybody here have that kind of experience?”  
  
“Well, I do. Quite a lot here recently.”  
  
In spite of himself, Gamling chuckled at Eomer’s wry interjection.  
  
“OK, one, ONE person has been shot at on horseback, but, I still don’t think -”  
  
“And everyone who was riding with me, Wyn. Everyone who ever rode out on patrol, or checked the perimeter, or defended their land has experience.”  
  
“And you have not. That is why you are staying. We need someone to stay, keep an eye on things here.”  
  
“A babysitter, then. That’s what I’m to do? Again? Just sit on my ass while you big strong men ride off into the sunset to make the world safe for us womenfolk. Is that it?”  
  
“Oh, please, Wyn. Don’t pull the gender card!”  
  
“Of course you’d be on his side, Mer. You’re going.”  
  
“There are no sides here, Eowyn.”  
  
“Oh, yes, there are! Those that have your confidence, and those you view as weak, ineffectual –”  
  
“I do not see you as weak.”  
  
“Then why must I stay here? I can ride, I can fight, I can –”  
  
“No, Eowyn.”  
  
“Why won’t you even listen to me?”  
  
“The matter is closed.”  
  
“Come on, Wyn, let it go.”  
  
“No, Mer, I won’t. I have the same rights as anyone in Rohan. This is my home. I want to protect my home!”  
  
“And that is exactly what I am trying to do, Eowyn.”  
  
“What, by treating me like a child? A fragile piece of glass? By shoving me in a box while the rest of Rohan rides off to glory?”  
  
“Glory? Is that what you think this is, Niece? _Glory_?”  
  
“I didn’t mean -”  
  
“We are riding to our deaths!”  
  
Theoden hit full volume, booming out across the lawn, and those pretending not to listen could no longer continue the ruse. All activity stopped, every ear turned to the voice of Rohan’s leader.  
  
“We will face an army that will mostly likely outnumber us ten to one at the very least. And it is no ordinary force we ride south to meet. It is the Dark Lord’s host, unmerciful and cruel.”  
  
“Then you will need every able bodied person to -”  
  
“What I need, Eowyn, is the continued existence of the farm. What every person who faces Sauron’s forces needs to hold close that the home they die for will not fall into oblivion.”  
  
“Don’t talk like that, Uncle. We don’t know that Rohan will fall.”  
  
“I face reality, Eowyn, and so must you. Our bodies will litter the battlefield. Do not doubt that. But, is that to be the end? Will we allow the Dark Lord to triumph? You must stay to see that Rohan thrives again, that the sacrifice paid outside the walls of Minas Tirith is not an empty one. What I need, Niece, is for you to _live._ ”  
  
The conversation inside Edoras fell back to the hushed tones of a family saying their last goodbyes. As one, the lawn listeners leaned into catch what - the screen door slapped open and Eowyn emerged, attention and activity snapping back to bustling mode as no one wanted to be caught staring. No one, that is, except Gamling. He could not help it, his eyes never left Eowyn as she stormed down the steps then out across the green. People tripped over their own feet in haste to get out of her way, but not Gamling; he just stood there, fixed in one spot, watching the tears slide down her cheeks unchecked.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be doing something? Something instead of standing and gawking?”  
  
“Got these to pack.”  
  
“Then do it!”  
  
She passed without another word.  
  
Gamling looked down at the horse blanket in his hands. “ _Our bodies will litter the battlefield,”_ Theoden had said, so neat folding suddenly seemed pointless. To survive the hell that was Helm’s Deep only to – with less than a day’s – no time for more people to -  his stare found Eowyn again, disappearing into the crowd. Slipping from trembling fingers, the burgundy wool pooled at his feet, a dark stain against the green of Rohan.

  
  
*****

  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Aragorn fought in vain to contain the headache threatening to overwhelm. Before his eyes, spread out on a table at the far end of the packing and preparation melee, and protected from breeze flapping by guns, sword and a found stray horseshoe, the map he had been staring at for the past two hours glared back at him, taunting bright colors representing the highways and borders of Virginia, twisting and turning through the Appalachian Mountains, signs and symbols for the rest in between. He could draw the whole state from memory, but was no closer to finding a solution to the crisis facing the world of men.  
  
He held no illusion; the possibility of Arda falling was indeed real. He had endured, however briefly, the touch of hatred harbored in Mordor through his contact with the Palantir. The Eye would besiege the White City, intending not just defeat but total obliteration. All who knew of Sauron’s threat, all who understood and remembered ages past, would meet on Pelennor Fields.  
His fear - that even the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan wouldn’t be enough to hold back the Black Tide.

_To have any chance, we need more men, more people, more everything!_  
  
His finger traced a line south from Pennsylvania: Winchester, Front Royal, Luray, Harrisonburg, Staunton, all filled with the blissfully ignorant. Just like every other town, city, state and country on the wider map. Too many generations, decades, centuries, eons had come and gone for modern man to listen, to believe in the ultimate evil. That was the stuff of fairy tales, legends and myths, the convoluted plot of the latest teen slasher movie. The power of the atom had been harnessed, space was the new playground. The globe itself was now one community, held together by Facebook, Tumblr, gmail, thin fiber optic threads of instantaneous communication. Evil came in the form of religious nutcases and power hungry dictators, not in a formless entity that held an eternal grudge. Safe behind the walls of economic freedom and scientific knowledge, the populations of those towns plodded through the days – earning a living, falling in or out of love, making plans, dreaming of a future that Aragorn feared might never to come to fruition should the war go against the forces of Light. Arda could fall - and the unsuspecting of this world would face the blaring workday alarm morning after next, waking up to a life ruled by the Eye.

His job: figure out a way to save mankind.  
  
_When did it get so complicated?_  
  
Freelancing had been simple, no boss, no expectations, only the satisfaction of a job well done as he drifted along Arda’s borders, guarding and protecting in sweet anonymity. He had companions, others who, like him, sought neither recognition nor remuneration for their efforts. Technically they all worked for Arda, but, in his self-imposed exile, the parameters of the job were his to set. Obligation held little sway over him. That is until an old friend called asking for a favor.  
  
_Never should have returned Gandalf’s voice mail._  
  
The promise made, Strider would see the student safely to Rivendell. And he had completed that mission. But, things had changed along the way and destiny now whispered his name. The Ring had resurfaced. Nazgul pursued it, Saruman coveted it, and on the journey the one who carried it became more than just a name.  
  
_I would have gone to the end, you know that, don’t you?_

Frodo and Sam were beyond reach, the same with Pippin, and the Fellowship, that had started strong and nine, was now a blunted thing with just four members remaining. Although stout hearted and brave, their contribution would not be enough to save Minas Tirith, could not even make a dent in Mordor’s lines. The Fellowship’s guns would be but a bucket drop against Sauron.  
  
“Must never tell Gimli. He would take it as a personal challenge.”  
  
“Never tell Gimli what?”  
  
Aragorn spun around to see speak of the devil standing so close behind he was nearly looking over his shoulder. “Well, uh, just that -“  
  
“That your cologne smells like the smelting pots in an iron factory, Gimli,” Legolas smoothly fitting into the conversation, “Aragorn here is too much of a gentleman to say anything.”  
  
“Which means, Legolas, that you are not a gentleman at all.”  
  
“Well, actually, my friend,” Legolas smiled, throwing an arm across the engineer’s shoulders, “I like to consider myself a bon vivant. Someone who lives on the edge.”  
  
“Yeah, right, bon vivant,” a softball snort, “tell me, does a bon vivant alphabetize his hair care products, and color code his boxers?”  
  
“Not even going to ask how you know that, Gimli,” head shaking to get dislodge disturbing mental images, “Is there something I can do for you, gentle - uh, guys? I’m rather busy here.”  
  
“You’ve got visitors.”  
  
“Who knows where I’m -” Squinting, he followed Gimli’s point to the other side of the lawn. Over by the stable jammed with horse trailers and trucks stood three figures out of place and lost amid the bustle. A genuine silly grin broke across his face. “Well, I’ll be damned!”  
  
“Aragorn!” Gimli called after the streaking figure of Isildur’s heir. “Hey! Wait for me!” Yelled at the following after Legolas. Both hails consummately ignored. Sighing, Gimli trotted to catch up. _I hate sprinting._

 

  
*****

  
  
Leaning back into the shadow cast by the stable, on a break, Merry wallowed. Not typical of his nature, this self-pity dogging at heels. Normally he took all things in stride, not allowing life’s vagaries to bother him. Not like Pippin whose only gear was high, or Frodo who could brood on a subject until there was nothing left but bleached bones, Merry never saw the sense in wasting the energy on worrying, on doubt. Fix the damn problem and move on ‘cause another one would surely pull up to the curb in minutes. Moments of quiet reflection, sure, the unexamined life and all that stuff, but the snowflake belief of life’s machinations, pearl clutching or the teary eyed lament of ‘Why me!’ that was for pussies. Special belonged to blue plates, unique the lie told by Madison Avenue, and singular, well, that was reserved for a certain Took, but just like all the rest of the schlubs of this world, he stood downhill, and the true measure of extraordinary was not talent, or brains or money or family name, but how fast one slogged through.

Recently, however, Merry had dipped a toe into the mournful waters of woe, and, finding it warm and inviting, had dived in head first, making straight for the deep end.  
  
He backstroked through his uselessness. Everyone was working hard; all had a purpose in the preparations for departure, while he stood to the side, his unskilled hands not needed for the trip to Gondor. He wasn’t just a fourth wheel now, but more like the tenth or eleventh, the flat spare tire left to rot in the back of the garage. He was the klutzy kid never picked to play basketball, the loser sitting ignored at the end of the bar. He was excess baggage, the forgotten member of the Fellowship, and he felt his solitude sting acutely. Especially as he lay alone, the right side of the bed undisturbed.  
  
Arms aching to hold his love, Merry had given up on sleep. Last he could remember his pillow he’d shoved it into his mouth, muffling his cries, a nightmare so vivid it haunted him still. Pippin, broken and bloody, dying alone on a dark plain while he stood to the side sharing a martini and a chuckle, both dry, with Estella.  
  
Frodo and Sam fared no better in Merry’s dark thoughts. Envy choke clogged his throat as he thought of his two wandering friends. _Sure, they’re going through hell now, but at least they’re together. Frodo has Sam, and Sam has Frodo. And what do I have? Shit! Literally._  
  
Passing the shovel from left to right hand, break heading into overtime, Merry swiped an arm across his sweat dirty brow, smearing the gunk around. Frantic for something to do, anything that would fill his empty hours, and keep his nightmares at bay, he had found some solace in the back-breaking and nasty work of mucking out the stalls. It was his first real job, one not obtained through his father’s influence, and even though he had no clue about horses, he could at least shovel their shit. And he was good at it, surprise, surprise. Even Theoden had remarked on the care Merry took with his task, promising him a spot on the farm as long as he wanted. And he did want to stay here. Unbearable as it was in Rohan, he knew only lonely agony awaited him in their empty apartment. So his days were spent in the stables, his evenings in the shower washing off the stink, and his nights out on the front porch with beer and overflowing ashtray, staring south and counting himself grateful.  
  
But, even that marginal existence was coming to an end. Rohan moved out at first light and only the essentials would be traveling the road south. Aragorn, Theoden, all the riders of Rohan were needed, one shit-shoveler was not.  
  
_This is my fight, too, goddammit!_  
  
From his vantage point, Merry could watch the entire lawn - Eowyn talking with Gamling, Aragorn over with Gimli, Theoden leaning close to his nephew, talking on the porch. Horses and trailers and men and ammunition and food stuffs and saddles and medical supplies and radio equipment and you name it, it all tornadoed by, but not one person noticed Merry. No one even knew he was here.  
  
He smiled, mind working, and slipped further into the shadows.  
  
_And no one would notice if I wasn’t._

  
*****

  
  
_I must apologize to Gamling,_ Eowyn cringing as she plowed through the crowd, the blur of activity around her lost. She had snapped at him without cause, projecting her anger on an innocent bystander. _I must apologize, but, not now._ Still too upset over her uncle’s dismissal, still too infuriated by brother’s collusion, to even think straight; any apology would be mangled within her anger  
  
_Leave me behind! Me!_  
  
Heading straight for her a very determined looking woman with a clipboard and questions, and Eowyn spun on her heels and marched the other way, not wanting to have another apology to make.

_Uncle Theoden thinking me unskilled, inexperienced._  
  
She had no idea where she was going, no place definite in mind, only that she could not stay in one place, her hurt still fresh. She sought activity, to burn it, sear it out of her lungs, body and mind.  
  
_And Eomer! So smug, so condescending! Just stood there, nodding and smiling!_  
  
Stepping over long boxes, lined up and stretching out like a trench cutting front lawn in two, all Eowyn’s in a manner of speaking, all this was hers. Rohan, Edoras, everything here was hers, every horse and foal, every barn and shed, the pastures, the fence posts, the very foundations she had nurtured and tended, all her life spent caring and loving this very spot on Earth. And to be forced aside from defending it – _Like I’m some worn out piece of furniture, to the attic with her! Or an invalid that needs tend –_

Movement, quick flash, out the corner of her eye. _What the –_ Amid the chaos, a person – Aragorn – streaking by, her gaze instinctively following his progress.

_God, but he is fine!_

Indignity on hold for the moment.  
  
Hair flying back, muscles rippling beneath his simple shirt and fatigue pants, Aragorn raced across the green, reminding Eowyn of a stallion who ran for the sheer joy of making the wind bow to his will.  
  
_And he is_ mine.  
  
OK, they hadn’t really talked since that night, and it had been two nights now that she had slept alone, work calling him away. But, she could not begrudge that sense of duty, it was one of the reasons she loved him, along with his determination, loyalty, leadership skills and ability to inspire.  
  
_The ass is just a bonus._  
  
As the familiar butterfly feeling fluttered up her stomach, she watched him reach desired destination: three men, strangers to Rohan, but obviously not to Aragorn for he greeted them with bear hugs and back slaps, smiling and laughing.  
  
_Who are they? Friends? Family?_  
  
The mystery too much for Eowyn to ignore – show up out of the blue, the day before, complete strangers – butterflies also anxious to know, she made a beeline toward the group, after all, any visitors to Rohan deserved the proper intro –

“There you are!” Clipboard woman pounced, cutting Eowyn off short, Aragorn and friends a tantalizing, yet unreachable, distance away. “Having an issue, mind if we go over this together?”

Yes, she did, very much so, and no, she didn’t, the interrupting woman, Natalie, just doing her job, a position Eowyn had recommended her for, and if there were any problems concerning the farm, attention would be given. “Sure, Nat, whatcha’ got?”

A sigh of relief, and clipboard was consulted. “Well, I can’t seem to locate…”

But, attention could be divided, equal parts inventory and Aragorn – one casual step to the left for a clear view of the group – and if voices carried on the wind…

“Went to the Oracle at Delphi.”  
  
The best way to describe the shorter of the three men was scruffy. His red hair had probably had seen no comb other than the wind in quite some time, and his beard scraggled down his chin uneven and peppered with grey. Clothes thrown on hastily, no doubt, bore bottom-of-the-suitcase creases. A trucker or construction worker, that’s what Eowyn pegged him as: an edges rough friend of Aragorn’s.  
  
“Showed up one day in Father’s office.”  
  
“Feet up on the desk, just waiting.”  
  
Night and day difference chasmed between scruffy man and the other two newcomers. Age aside, they were blonde, tall, willowy, beautiful and identical. Eowyn could almost believe she was staring at a mirror and its reflection. Add in Legolas who stood at their side, and the mirror became a three way.  
  
“On the desk?”  
  
“Didn’t want to mess up the pretty carpet.”  
  
“Elrond must have loved that.”  
  
“Father was ecstatic. Frown so deep you could hide luggage.”  
  
A beat. Then all the men burst out laughing.  
  
_Friends. Definitely._

“Sent you – don’t drop it!” Almost did, long and narrow and unexpectedly heavy, some bobbling moments as it passed into Aragorn’s care. “Don’t want to break it. Again.”

“You mean  - is this?”

“Father saw to -” Elladan started –

And Elohir finished – “the reforging personally.”

“You mean THIS is?”

Twins in unison – “Yes.”

Couldn’t tell what was creepier: the exact same expression on every face – awe and wonder, a humbling reverence to be in the presence of such solemnity; or six grown men standing there paying homage to a Fed Ex box.

“Sent a message to you, too. Important, but for the life of me, I can’t make heads or tails of the damn thing. Hope you know what he’s talking about, Strider.”

“Strider?”

“Beg pardon?”

_Crap._ Too divided perhaps. “No, nothing, Natalie, just thinking out – bit guards you were saying?”

“OK, I know we ordered new ones…”

Another step to the left, another step closer, Eowyn’s intention must be obvious, but Natalie so far oblivious, so let’s continue focus shifting from one conversation to the…  
  
“I even asked him to give me a decoder ring or something, but -”  
   
“Halbarad, the message, please.”  
  
Scruffy beard cleared his throat. “OK, here goes.” Looking up for a moment, he then closed his eyes, memory on playback. “Time is running out. Do not forget the Paths of the Dead is an option. Perhaps our only one.”  
  
_Paths of the Dead._ A chill swept through Eowyn that had nothing to do with October’s nip.  
  
“Never heard of that.”  
  
“Few have, Gimli. They lie to the north of -”

“Oh, shoot!” A ringing cell phone, Natalie handing over clipboard to search pockets, “can’t imagine who would be -” incoming call’s number sparking interest, “better take this, could be a – sorry,” Natalie walking off to answer, “shoot!” Natalie walking back to retrieve clipboard, “sorry, gimme’ just a sec,” Natalie off again, the caller’s news not happy, “unacceptable, we need it here by…”

Irritating distraction dispersed – that was unkind, Natalie Formosa a wonderful person, if a little flighty – attention stitched back whole again. But, the intriguing conversation had continued without  - _what did they – what did I -_  and with cover story of conferring with colleague lost, should she just walk over there and – no, current topic will stop for innocuous pleasantries and she might never learn what – _like where those dead paths_ – couldn’t stand and stare either, such blatant snooping so unbecoming of a – _so how do I_ – hugging a wan shadow, Eowyn suddenly super fascinated with the hitch on an ancient horse trailer.

“Sounds like a fucking blast. So when do we leave?”  
  
“As soon as possible. As soon as I talk to Theoden and explain things.”  
  
_What? What happened, what did they – something about leaving?_  
  
“I must go, but you don’t. Any of you.”  
  
_He’s - no, you don’t! You don’t have to -_  
  
“Pretty sure I speak for the rest of us here, Strider, that there ain’t no way in hell you’re going alone.”  
  
Anger flared anew and once again aimed at clueless, pig-headed men. _They’re all nuts!_ Would not stand for this. Of course, she didn’t know the whole story, the destination, purpose or expected outcome, however, what she did know, what she had overheard, the travel part of this cockamamie plan could not go unchallenged. _His place is here with Rohan, walking away just when we are about to go to the fight of our lives, his place is here with –_ indignation stepped up to confront –

“Oh, and I’ve got something for you, Estel.”  
  
_Estel? How many names does he have? Never mind, he’s not going, he’s staying here with -_  
  
“From Arwen.”  
  
Eowyn stopped dead.

“Gave it to us right before we departed Rivendell.”  
  
“I thought by now that she would be, I mean, she didn’t -”  
  
“Nope, and was Father pissed! Ran away before the plane even took off. Holed up in the Ramada by the airport before her credit card maxed out and she was forced to come home.”  
  
“Here. She embroidered something for you.”  
  
_Arwen. But, that’s all over. So what that she’s not gone like you said, like she should be. You’re with me now. With me._  
  
With numbed horror, Eowyn watched Aragorn’s other gift shifted to lean on leg as he accepted a velvet bag from the twins. Immediately brought to his face, he breathed in deeply, caressing the fabric with his cheek.  
  
“Arwen,” the name a balm, a prayer, a sip to the parched, “Arwen.”  
  
Ringing again, not Natalie, no cell phone to blame, truth’s racket this time. _NO! This isn’t right! This can’t be happening. He’s leaving and now this? NO!_ A step into the light. “Aragorn!”  
  
He turned, surprised, curious as to why she was – what she might have been - then chagrined what he was about to – “Eowyn, we must talk, but here -” companions waiting, “- is not the appropriate place. I will find you before I - later, OK?” Eyes swimming with emotion, but not the one she desperately needed to see. He showed her admiration, respect…regret. “Come, gentlemen, we have much to prepare if we are to leave soon.” One more incline of the head, and Aragorn with long box led his troops away, the velvet bag clutched close to his heart.  
  
She could not breathe, her lungs summarily refusing to do the inflate thing. Talk he had said, later, he had asked. Stiff and cold, limbs heavy and immobile. No crystal ball or Jedi mind trick required. Brain shut down as well, only one phrase repeated, replayed, screaming, shrieking inside her head. _Stupid, stupid, you are so stupid!_ In the small span of thirty minutes her life had been stripped bare. She was to stay here while everyone else rode south to fight, and the man she had given her heart and body to - _Stupid, stupid, you are so stupid!_ \- turned back to the woman _he_ loved.  
  
All eyes were on her, even those not turned her direction, all of Rohan witnesses, Eowyn could feel them boring into her with their sympathy and scorn. _Look at her! Look at Eowyn! Did she really believe Aragorn loved her? Why, because she’s the boss’ niece? Theoden doesn’t even want her around. Brother, too! Stupid, stupid, you are so stupid!_ Forcing body into motion, she ran from the lawn, from the jeers and ridicule, she ran from her shame and hurt. Ran to the one place that meant safe.  
  
“Take me with you.”  
  
A gasp of surprise – this was her place, nobody else belongs – spinning in the stable doorway ready to battle the shape lurking - “Merry?”  
  
“Take me with you.”  
  
“Take you where?” Could not deal with his jokes right now, only wanted to curl up in the back stall and sink into nothingness. _Stupid, stupid, you are so stupid!_ “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
He took a step forward, coming into the light.“Oh, yes you are. I know you’re going to follow. All I ask is that, when you do leave, you take me, too.”  
  
“Follow? Follow who?”  
  
Merry jerked head out to the green. “Take me with you.”  
  
“I can’t, I’m not supposed to go. Uncle told me I’m to stay here.” _Please leave me alone! I just want to die!_  
  
“I know. Told me the same thing, too,” eyes ablaze, intense and wicked, “take me with you.”  
  
“Merry,” shame on the brink, ready to spill before she could cloister herself away. _He thinks I can just up and leave, going against my uncle’s wishes. Just leave, walk away, to hell with everything else. Just leave?_ The tears stopped burning. _Leave, walk away. Away from here, away from the pain. Leave it, and him, all behind._ She smiled.  
  
Merry smiled.  
  
“Right. We go together.”

 


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!!!! NON-CONSENSUAL SEX!!!

 

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Seven

 

  
WARNING: Non-consensual sex!!!  
  
  
  
  
Frodo told time not by a watch, he had been stripped of everything. Frodo told time not by the passage of the sun, his prison was windowless and shaded. Frodo told time not by the sounds of bells or alarms, his world a vacuum. Frodo told time not by conventional means, but by the hands that took him, used him, then passed him to the next.  
  
First came the Quiet One. Pounded down under massive hips, the Quiet One would grunt only once as he spurted across Frodo’s belly. After, a shove, and the trash was tossed out.  
  
Next, the Mumbler. Never understood the Mumbler as he pumped, filling Frodo’s mouth, gagging and choking. Climax jerked out, with the slap or kick that inevitably followed, however, the shout could not be mistaken. “Fucking faggot cocksucker!”  
  
The third and last, Frodo feared the most. He had many names: the Screamer, the Puncher, the Failure. Erection achieved instantly upon entering Frodo’s hell, his mangled cock twitching in anticipation. As hurtful hands trapped abused body to the mattress, this last tormentor rammed in without a problem, his thrusts ripping, bringing knees up out of the pool of filth on which he knelt. But, something always happened. A switch was thrown somewhere, and the invader of Frodo’s body deflated. That’s when the Failure became the Screamer and the Screamer turned into the Puncher, taking out his impotence on Frodo. The blows would rain down on his prostrate body until an orgasm of fury exploded. Then the grasping hands would depart and Frodo was left alone.  
  
Until the cycle began again.  
  
Twice he had lived the shame. Twice the pain had passed. Twice since regaining consciousness to the sting of whips on his naked flesh. In the beginning, when he still had some strength, still clean and unbruised, Frodo had fought back. More than a few groins were permanently damaged by his well placed kicks, many eyes turned bloodshot from his gouging. More still bore the marks of his teeth in their flesh. But, his struggling was answered by the arrival of more gruff voices and more rough hands to hold him down until his only way to fight was to shriek curses, damning them over and over. And that soon came to an end; hard to scream with either a gag or a cock stuffed in his mouth.  
  
When his voice was silenced, theirs jabbered on.

“Pretty boy not so pretty anymore. You like this, don’t you? Queer boy takes it up the ass so nice! Come here! No teeth! Want some more? Don’t look at me! Not worth much. Too small for anything. Not the first time for you, is it? Look at me, fucking look at me! Goddamn you! What’s the matter? Does it hurt? Am I hurting you, faggot? Open up, fucker, open up! Let me see it! Let me touch it! Let me taste it! What happened? What’d you do, you little shit? Too small, not enough, not worth my time. You’ll pay for that! Come back here, dammit! There, there! Hold him right there! Don’t you fucking look at me!”  
  
While his captors played, Frodo tasted degradation. As he strained against the pain, shame flooded through. Being taunted and teased, stretched and pulled, violated and debased, Frodo swam amidst humiliation. Although used like a ten dollar whore, nothing compared to the self-loathing he drowned in when left alone.  
  
Huddling naked on the stinking mattress in the corner of his featureless cell, Frodo hated. He hated the bastards who tormented, the monster who stung and the traitor who had lured him into the tunnel in the first place. And he hated himself for his failure, his weakness, and for wishing more than anything he could feel the Ring again.  
  
He’d recognized the void immediately, head was empty, no voice, no hum, no eye watching and weighing. It had become so integral to him since he first held the simple gold band in his palm, he and the Ring forever inextricably bound. Even Sam’s music could not plug the hole in his soul left by the loss of the Ring. Even his _Sam_ could not hold the longing for the Ring at bay while Frodo was alone. No, alone he could only pine to have it tucked close again, yearn to watch it glint and twinkle in the light, plead to have the voice return to whisper through his dreams. The Ring had brought him to this place, dragged him down to where he lived only as a receptacle for rancid spit and semen, yet, he cried bitter tears, whimpering, the hollow inside too large to cross. Without the Ring’s presence, Frodo was nothing.  
  
He had failed, the Ring was once again in Its Master’s care and Frodo knew his life was forfeit. Inside his darkened oubliette, the taunts of those who stood and witnessed - words as cruel and torturous as the hands that clawed his flesh - reverberated and told the tale of the fate of the defeated Ringbearer.   
  
“Not long now. Soon. Just wait, wait! Guess what’s next for you, faggot? The Eye is waiting for you. Don’t know pain ‘til you see the Eye. It’s the Eye soon, pretty boy. Next time, next time the door opens, it’s your time with the Eye.”  
  
Frodo had lived every day for so long now with the Eye burning in his mind and heart, the malice had charred the edges of his soul. The memory of the flames constantly lurked, and soon Frodo would come before Sauron as the Ringbearer, the one who had sought to deny the master of his prize. Frodo, who had endured the pain of the Ringwraith’s blade, the attack of Boromir, the rape by the perversion and hate, understood what stretched before him - eons of searing agony, the blessed release of death a far distant reward. The guards had laughed about it, the Shadow had foretold it, and the Eye had long ago promised.  
  
Frodo was living his nightmare, the one that had chased him from his lover’s sleeping embrace and pinned him to the wall in fear. No biting splinters, no smoke and ash, but the same dream with a different ending. Sam had called him back then, saved him before, but not this time. This time there would be no soft voice murmuring his name, no caring arms to hold him, no future with his love to reach toward. This time, in this dream, Sam would not find him. The door would open, hard hands would take him and Frodo would meet the Eye.  
  
The nightmare at the Institute had vanished with Sam. But, Sam was not here. And that thought gave Frodo the only bit of comfort he allowed himself to feel. Sam was not here to live the pain, face the truth, to see just how far his love had fallen. Sam was not here, and Frodo begged desperately for this one last wish – that he might never see that beloved face again.  
  
_Sam! Oh, Sam, I love you! Love you! I never said it enough, but you know, don’t you? You know how you completed me, and each breath I took was yours? Sam! I wanted you, I wanted us, I wanted everything! I wanted to add your name to the mailbox and to display your picture on my desk, introduce you as my husband at the office Christmas party. I wanted to shop for groceries and toasters, I wanted you at night and first thing in the morning. I wanted to love you, Sam, I needed to love you! So sorry, Sam, for dragging you into this, so sorry for bringing you pain and sorrow, so sorry you had to love me, the fuck-up, the failure. Please, please, Sam, for me, if you love me, you won’t come for me. You’ll be gone, gone out of the tunnel, out of the mountain and back home. Go, get out, get away! Go home, to New York, to Brooklyn. Go get that brownstone, go get that wife and those kids and that remote. Go be Sam and give your love to someone who deserves you. Sam, my Sam, forget me and live!_  
  
By Frodo’s reckoning, it must be almost time. Almost time for his tormentors to come back for the third time. The last time.  
  
Curled into a squalid ball, Frodo turned the name of his lover into a mantra. He rocked as he waited for them to return. _Sam, Sam, Sam._ Frodo crooned the simple syllable again and again, shoving cracked knuckles in his mouth, watching the door open, the piercing light blinding him. _Sam, Sam, Sam._ Frodo clung to the sweet music in his soul, the music of his Sam, his Sam who would continue to live, as a figure loomed in the doorway, coming to take him to the Eye. Frodo sang his love for his Sam as he waited to die.  
  
_Sam, Sam, Sam.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
“Frodo, Frodo, Frodo.”  
  
His body writhed in Sam’s arms, sweat slipping down sides, darkening the white sheets, dampening the mattress.  
  
“Come for me, Frodo, come for me.”  
  
The sun was just beginning to peak over the East River, and the streets of New York were barely stirring, but above Bag End, two lovers had been awake for an hour.  
  
“Sam, I – just – there – want – good - OH!”  
  
Before dawn, Sam began his day with a naked Frodo curled to his chest. Usual mornings saw only sweet kisses, a gentle touch or squeeze. This morning, however, Frodo had demanded more from Sam. He wanted hands on his body, roaming his skin, capturing his arousal, bringing him to the edge. Wanted Sex, a fuck, and who was Sam to deny him?  
  
“Frodo, let go. Frodo, oh, Frodo!”  
  
Wrapped in Sam’s arms, Frodo’s cock slipped easily through his hand, while his own reveled in the friction created between Frodo’s cheeks. Spooning, sheets a jumbled mess, pillows knocked aside, barely clinging to the edge, Frodo shivered when teeth bit down into the flesh of his shoulder.   
  
“Close, Sam, close!”  
  
Tugging Frodo’s head back, fist in hair forcing the awkward stretch, Sam panted into his lover’s mouth, tongue lapping the salt from upper lip. He suckled Frodo’s neck, leaving marks on throat’s pristine skin.  
  
“Let go, Frodo, just let go. For me, for your Sam.”  
  
The mattress squeaked with the strain as Frodo shoved his hips upward, harsh, demanding thrusts for Sam’s encircling, matched instantly from behind. Crazily, Frodo’s arms flailed about in his ecstasy, one coming to rest on Sam’s head, snagged in his curls, the other clutched Sam’s ass, scratching him closer.  
  
“Sam, now, SAM!”   
  
Arching, Frodo went rigid, breath caught in that instant, his seed warming Sam’s fingers.  
  
“Beautiful, beautiful,” tears in Sam’s eyes as he watched his lover’s climax consume, “most wondrous sight in the world.” He held on tight when Frodo’s limp body melted down into the softness beneath, kissing and stroking him to calm._

_The best start of the day. EVER.  
  
“Oh, Sam, my Sam, I do love you so.”  
  
Content just to stay as he was, with a satisfied Frodo in his arms, Sam would never have asked for his needs to be answered. But, Frodo would have none of that. Easing from his lover’s embrace, a quick essentials grab from the bedside table drawer, he spun around and pushed Sam onto his back. Climbing atop, legs straddling, a liberal amount squeezed out, lube ozzing down fingers to wrist._

_“Don’t you have to go to -”_

_“Shut up, Samwise.”_

_Not a problem to comply, the ability to speak muted by the sight of Frodo, up on knees, reaching around to prepare the way._

_“Inside, Sam, I want you **deep** inside,” eyes and voice held a hint of the wildness that made blood burn, “now, Sam, take me now.”  
  
Without another word or thought, Sam grabbed Frodo’s thighs, red marks on skin, and shoved him into position. He sank into Frodo’s body, the heat igniting his flesh.  
  
“Oh, sweet Jesus!”  
  
As Sam pumped, Frodo stretched body back, hands high in the air, head shaking his sweat matted curls.  
  
“Sam! Yes! Deep! Hard! Fuck me!”  
  
He had never seen the wanton creature that thrashed and twisted above him. Never had Frodo acted so uninhibited, so out of control. It enflamed Sam, his body reacting in kind. Closing his eyes, he began to pummel, pushing and shoving hips until bone smacked bone and hands dug into taut flesh.  
  
“Your mouth, now, Frodo! Give me your fucking mouth!”  
  
Frodo instantly complied with his lover’s demand, shifting down across Sam, bringing body’s invasion to another, sweeter angle and he cried out, gasping in pleasure.  
  
“Oh, Sam, there! Right fucking there!”  
  
Sam’s tongue assaulted mouth, his teeth biting down into swollen lips. He sucked and licked, grunting his thrusts. He wanted to be completely inside, take him in everyway possible. Yanking hips down , Sam drilled into Frodo without mercy, the whimpering sounds just adding fuel to the fire.   
  
“Want you, Frodo! Want to make you scream!”  
  
Frodo was up on his hands now, hovering over Sam’s sweat slicked body. Hard again, he was using movement’s friction to bring relief to his aching cock. His head bounced back and forth, teeth jarring together.  
  
“Harder, Sam, do us harder!”  
  
Sam’s ass came up off the mattress with each thrust, and he could feel Frodo against his belly, the wetness of his desire slipping between their bodies. That, and the sound of Frodo’s pleading in his ears were almost enough to distract Sam from what pounded against his chin. It was odd and it was out of place in this lovers’ dance.   
  
“We want you so bad, Sam! So bad! Do us, yes, take us!”  
  
Sam opened his eyes to see dangling Ring.  
  
“Sam, yes, yes, please, take us, take us, fuck US!”  
  
“No, Frodo! No! Goddamn! NO!” Sam pulled away in horror.  
  
Hands flew to Sam’s face, locked him into a stare, hips continuing their rhythm, grinding down, holding, trapping. “Yes, Sam. You want this, we know you do. You want me, you want us both. Take us, Sam.” Frodo’s eyes burned. “Love us, Sam. Make us yours.”  
  
He tried to stop, to still his thrusts, to pull away. Sam tried to ignore the lust within his soul. He truly tried. Frodo and the Ring were right there, though, begging, pleading. Right there for him to take, to possess, to own, to consume. Frodo’s body wanted this, Frodo and the Ring wanted this. And to his eternal shame, Sam wanted this, too. Hips started to move again. Frodo smiled and the Ring began to sing.  
  
“Yes, Sam, yes! We are one! All of us! One! One! One!”  
  
Sam delved deeper and tears slipped into ears as he reached a pinnacled and polluted climax buried deep within Frodo and the -_  
  
“NO!”  
  
Blinking, Sam fought to bring world into focus.

_What – where – why do I feel – FRODO!_  
  
He was _here!_ Sam’s barren plain bloomed again, green and sunny. Frodo’s arms were caressing Sam, enveloping Sam, holding Sam, squeezing tears from Sam’s. _Frodo?_ Those arms clenched tighter, desperately clinging to Sam, forcing him to gasp air into his lungs. Frodo was back, but he was in pain and he was in terrible, terrible trouble.  
  
Mouth fuzzy with thirst, eyes sandpaper raw, Sam’s body sore, stiff and cold where it lay on the stone, aching in more places than it didn’t, with head pounding to heart’s drum. Beat up, dog tired, ravenously hungry, Sam angled up into a sitting position, cradling head in hands. _How long? How long have I been out? Long enough to have to piss like a nine-dicked weasel, that’s for sure._ But, he could not rest, not now, now that Frodo was calling to him.  
  
Grunting his way to his feet, Sam tipped over and had to use the rock wall to steady himself. Up too fast or down too long, he closed his eyes, knowing the vertigo would soon pass. But, that only brought up frightening images from his dream, a place he would rather not visit again. Ever.   
  
_Just the Ring fucking with me, that’s all. Just the Ring. Doesn’t mean anything. Nothing at all. Right?_  
  
He cocked head to listen instead, but there was no other sound except his breathing. Good and bad. No orcs to hide from, but also no orcs to trail. Suddenly Frodo’s torment knocked him off-balance, legs trembling and stomach lurching to mouth.  
  
“FRODO!”

Never before, never like this, the terror invading, abject and primal, Frodo was -  
  
_Got to go, got to go now!_ Sam pushed enfeebled body off from the wall and bent down to pick up Sting. Another wave of dizziness tossed him about, but he powered right through it, the nausea swallowed down, determined to reach Frodo.  
  
No idea which way to go, Sam followed the surmised orcs path, but that just led him a merry chase to utter confusion, reaching a cave that looked exactly like all the others he had wandered through except – North, South, East, West, four tunnels broke apart and away, leading to…where?  
  
“Oh, shit! Shit, fuck, shit! Why, why? Can’t just one thing go right? One fucking thing come my way! Would that be too much to ask, huh? Four! It had to be four, not three, or two, and most definitely not one, ‘cause that would have been too goddamn easy, and nothing, NOTHING can be easy!”  
  
Frodo’s stranglehold told Sam that time was running out, and he couldn’t spend what little he had going blindly down each way, hoping to find the right one eventually. _Frodo needs me now!_  
  
“What, eenie, meanie, minie, moe? Is that what I’m supposed to do? One potato, two potato?  Oh, I am so fucked!”  
  
Each way looked equally frightening and dark, each way held the potential for escape or the disaster of a dead end. Dripping water, a small ploink…ploink…ploink marked the seconds of Sam’s indecision, eyes flittering from one tunnel to the next.  
  
“Left, right, straight? Which way do I go? Which way?”  
  
Four possibilities loomed in front of him, only one chance to get it right.  
  
“Frodo! Help me!”   
  
…ploink…ploink…ploink…  
  
“Frodo, please!”  
  
The small one on the far left, opaque and dank, East rang with Sam’s footsteps.

“Thank you, Thank you!”  
  
It wasn’t Frodo that had spoken to Sam, though, not the sound of his lover’s voice that had whispered in his head, pointing the way. Sam’s guide, of course, The Ring showing him the way home.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Ignoring the loud argument brewing down the hall, Sam sneaked his head around the corner and counted.  
  
_One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three hippopotamus…_  
  
Forty-five of those large mammals and the camera swept back across the empty corridor sending Sam once more into hiding.  
  
_Forty-five seconds. Got forty-five seconds to get by unseen. Piece of cake, right?_  
  
Running the whole way, the trip from spider’s lair to stairwell had taken, Sam figured, about an hour. Frodo’s fear had subsided to a dull ache, and Sam sighed with relief at the momentary respite.  
  
The tunnel with all its twists and turns had led him to a sort of loading dock, black trailer trucks lined up, twenty deep, eye logo on the sides, a full shift of orcs – and fucking huge, lumbering things straight out of a D  & D character generator – unloading…well, Sam didn’t know what, but good guess it wasn’t early Chanukah gifts. Luck finally threw Sam a bone, emerging out of the mountain on the other end of the dock from the orc activity. Taking only a second to acknowledge that he was now actually _in_ Mordor, proper like, Sam skittered along the wall like a bug, like a spider even, heading for the far opposite steps. Using Sting’s dull glow, in the windowless, lightless well, Sam had followed Frodo’s fear up. And up and up. The landing he crouched on now was at the very top, the steps ended and there was nowhere else to go.  
  
A stench fouler than the tunnels had eyes watering, and he actually preferred the aroma of his monster guts grimy sleeve shoved into his face over the stink smelly air. From his vantage point just inside the dark stairwell, a corridor tilted off center, like some abstract painting Bilbo had tried to explain to him once. And failed. Recessed lighting wheezed out of yellowed plastic, pooling weakly at regular intervals on the institutional green linoleum. Plaster walls filled with gouges and hairline fractures slumped pathetic and unconcerned, holding precariously onto door after unremarkable door. A milieu of tired inattentiveness stretched far down until the apathetic hallway cut off to the right. The only things not tainted by neglect were the security cameras that stood sentinel at each corner. They swept with regimental ease, marking the emptiness of this forgotten place. Three times Sam had counted the span it took for each camera to pass - forty-five seconds - and he knew it would be the same as he counted for a fourth time.  
  
_So, what are you waiting for, Gamgee? Passover?_  
  
The camera reached the farthest point in its ever watchful arc, and Sam darted out into the pallid light.  
  
_One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three hippopotamus…_  
  
Realizing too late that he had absolutely no idea which door would lead him to Frodo, Sam dove at the first knob. Empty.  
  
_…seven hippopotamus, eight hippopotamus, nine hippopotamus…_  
  
The argument, heated up now to threats and cursing shouts, plowed down the corridor, pushing Sam to the next door.  
  
“I found him, so it’s mine!”  
  
“I took it off him, so it’s mine!”  
  
“It goes to the Eye, you fuckers, just like everything else!”  
  
Four rooms checked, all still empty.  
  
_…fifteen hippopotamus, sixteen hippopotamus, seventeen hippopotamus…_  
  
“You walk out of this room and I swear, I’ll cut your balls off!”  
  
“What, you need mine ‘cause you aint’ got none?”  
  
The seventh door knob slipped within Sam’s sweaty grasp. That room empty, too.  
  
_…twenty-eight hippopotamus, twenty-nine hippopotamus, thirty hippopotamus…_  
  
Sam turned to run back to the safety of the stairwell, thinking to wait for the camera to pass, then try again, when the voices and the argument were suddenly on the move, heading straight down the corridor to where he stood.  
  
“I warned you, shithead! Give it back!”  
  
“Try and take it, fucker!”  
  
_…thirty-five hippopotamus, thirty-six hippopotamus, thirty-seven hippopotamus…_  
  
The next door proved to be locked. And the next and the next. Voices and cameras both coming his way.  
  
_…forty hippopotamus, forty-one hippopotamus, forty-two hippopotamus…_  
  
The next door was locked from the outside. His fingers trembled as he fought to work the dead bolt lock and chain.  
  
“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”  
  
The lock came free. The door swung open.  
  
_…forty-five hippopo -_  
  
He let the door swing behind him.  
  
“Leave me alone, fucker! Don’t you goddamn touch me! Not again! Get out! Get out! Get the fuck away from me!”  
  
The shrieking voice shoved Sam back to the wall, mind still dealing with his harrowing escape, and not ready to process the insane screeching in the -  
  
“I won’t go! Won’t go, so don’t even try, fucker! Not going to take me, not going to touch me!”  
  
Circumstances did not afford Sam time, however, banshee processing or otherwise, the door slammed open, banging back against the wall, missing him by a sigh, and massive shoulders filled the doorway.  
  
“Leave me the fuck alone! Go away! Don’t touch me! Please don’t touch me again!”  
  
A sharp line of light cut across the floor, bending at an angle on the far wall. It illuminated without revealing Sam, and from his dark refuge smack up against the wall, it spotlighted a grimy mattress and its huddled figure. _Oh, god, no._  
  
“Now it’s my turn with you, cocksucker. No more watching, no more waiting. And no one’s around to hear you scream.” The orc laughed, a sickeningly high cackle as he advanced.  
  
No indecision this time, no eenie, meanie, no hippopotamus. Just gut reaction. The tip of Sting blazed as the orc looked down to see it sticking out of his sternum. One shove and the orc fell face flat, one kick and the door slammed shut. one heartbeat and Sam was across the room.  
  
“Frodo? Frodo, oh, god, Frodo.”  
  
“Don’t touch me, please, please, PLEASE, don’t touch me again!”  
  
Sting’s still glowing blade provided enough light for Sam to see what his cowardice and indecision had wrought. Naked, covered in bruises and blood, stinking of old urine and dried semen, his love groveled in a corner, pleading for his life.  
  
“Don’t, just don’t, please, please don’t. Don’t touch me, don’t hurt me, please, don’t take me.”

_What happened here – was he – did they –_ as if the physical evidence wasn’t damning enough – _oh, god, Frodo._  
  
Instinctively, Sam reached out and brought the pitiful thing to his chest, careful not to squeeze too tightly. _Don’t want to hurt him. No, you’ve hurt him enough already._ He gently soothed fingers through matted hair, whispering his name repeatedly, calming him, cradling him, caressing him. “Frodo, Frodo, love, Frodo, it’s me, it’s Sam. Frodo, you’re safe now. Sam’s here. I’m here.” His voice broke when the weak struggle to leave his arms quieted and Frodo finally focused on his face. “You’re…safe. It’s your -”  
  
“Sam?”  
  
“Yes, Frodo, I’m here. I’m here now, no one’s going to hurt you again.”  
  
“Sam,” and the tears began to fall. “What are you - should be - your brownstone – what - doing here?”  
  
“I’m here to rescue you. I’ve come for you.”  
  
Frodo’s shoulders shook fitfully as he sobbed. “You came for…for me… Sam.”  
  
“Always, Frodo.”  
  
“You came for me.”  
  
Sam had so much he wanted to say, to explain, to apologize for. He needed to beg forgiveness, to hold the man he thought dead, the man he had abandoned, in his arms, taking in all the hurt and suffering, drawing it to his own body and soul. Cruel mistress time would not allow for a confession right now, though. Now they needed to leave this room and find a more secure place. The sounds of the fight raging in the hallway just outside the door, bodies banging against the walls, shouts and cries and curses prompted Sam into action.  
  
“As much as I love holding you naked like this, Frodo, I think we need to get moving.” Fishing broken glasses out of his pocket, he placed them on Frodo’s dirty face. “Sorry, didn’t have time to fix them, but they’ll do for now.” He placed Frodo’s deathly thin body back to the dirty mattress regretfully, reaching for his pack. “You certainly can’t be walking to the Cracks wearing only a smile. Let me find you some clothes.”  
  
Frodo allowed the shift of positions, but he grabbed at Sam’s hand, holding it tight, as if the loss of contact meant the loss of Sam entirely. “Doesn’t matter. Not going there. No need. They took it. It’s gone.”  
  
Sam kissed Frodo’s hand, lips tender on the bloodied knuckles. “Sauron doesn’t get off that easy.” Digging into his jeans, he pulled the chain out slowly. “Thought it a good idea, didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands, so to speak,” a cold spot against his hip, “so I took -”  
  
A gasp, Frodo’s eyes widening as he watched the chain emerge and twist, the blue of Sting casting a winter’s moonlit glow on the gold band. “The Ring,” eyes broken into shards of blue as they peered through the cracked lens, “The Ring is safe.”  
  
“That is until we fry the sucker. Then it’s toast.”  
  
A shaky hand reached out - “Give me the Ring, Sam, give me the Ring.”  
  
Did not like the hungry look in Frodo’s eyes. Too reminiscent of his dream. He hesitated, drawing back his hand. _Is this the smart thing to do, giving it back? Shouldn’t I hold onto it for him? For safe-keeping only, of course. Just until he’s feeling better, stronger, until he’s ready to take on the burden again. Yeah, that’s it, I’ll just hold it for him until he’s –_  
  
A growl. “Give me the Ring, Sam!”   
  
Sam withheld it still. _SAMwise. SAMwise. SAMwise._  
  
“The Ring is mine! Give me the Ring!”  
  
It hummed as it hung benignly, swaying back and forth, like a pendulum, counting down the seconds, the seconds down to its destruction. Or victory.  
  
“The Ring was given to me, Sam. It is my problem. Only me. Give me the Ring!”  
  
_SAMwise, SAMwise, SAMwise. I’ll just hold it for him. He’s so hurt, so broken. I’ll hold it, keep it safe, keep it -_  
  
Gunshots ricocheting down the hall and Sam jumped, turning toward the bedlam. If luck was feeling exceptionally generous – twice in one day? - they had mere seconds until orc mayhem arrived. When he looked back – why as he still holding - “Sure, Frodo, whatever.” He passed the Ring over to outstretched hand, and the whisper…the noise…retreated.

Snatching at the chain, “The Ring is mine,” Frodo closed his eyes and placed, reverently, sensually, It about his neck.  
  
Concentrated on his pack, choosing to ignore both his fuzzy feeling of loss and the creepy huge sigh from Frodo as the gold band kissed his skin again. “These clothes are dirty, but they’ll do for right now. Here, let me help you.”  
  
“Thank you, Sam.” He sat still, allowing Sam to move his arms and body like a puppeteer, neither helping nor complaining, just staring at the Ring. “I love you.”  
  
Sam could not ignore, however, the look on Frodo’s face as he twirled the Ring between his fingers. Sam knew that expression intimately, thought it belonged to only him. But it wasn’t his name on Frodo’s lips this time, but the Ring’s.  
  
“My treasure.”  
  


 


	8. 8

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Eight  


  
  
Before the row of elevators, Faramir fidgeted waiting for one to arrive and take him to his father’s office. Despite his clean clothes and body, he still felt soiled and tarnished. He had washed his hair four times this morning, but the stench of burning rubber and blood still hung about.

_Will I never be free of yesterday?_  
  
Last night he had lost the fight with his exhaustion early, barely making it to his room on shaky legs. Vivid dreams flickered as he slept. The attack of Osgiliath all the way to his panicked return to Minas Tirith played on an endless loop, just as the big stone gates closed, he would find himself standing on those deserted city streets again. The scenes of death and destruction the same, only in this dream version of events the blasting of the helicopters, the shrieks of the Nazgul, the cries of the dying were silent. The soundtrack of this reenactment was Denethor’s voice pointing out each of Faramir’s mistakes. And at every misstep, his father would say with glee, “Boromir would not have made that blunder.” When Faramir awoke, on top of the covers and sprawled where he had collapsed, he knew without a doubt that what happened yesterday would have played out differently had Boromir been the one to lead the men to Osgiliath. If he had, then many would be waking with their families this morning instead of cluttering up the morgue. Those men had put their trust in Faramir, a man who held several Doctorates, but did not hold the wisdom to bring them home alive.  
  
_But Boromir did not have the wisdom, or the strength, to bring himself home alive._  
  
Once again ‘should have beens’ hung over Faramir’s head as he stabbed at the button in a vain attempt to make the elevator hurry. The trip to Osgiliath should have been uneventful. He should have been the one to go to New York. His father should have been more receptive to his words. Boromir should have been stronger against the Ring’s call.  
  
_What was it like for him? He must have fought against the evil. He would have fought The Ring. Right? He couldn’t have been the monster Sam described the entire time. Could he?_  
  
Faramir did not doubt the young man’s veracity; he had seen the truth in Sam’s eyes, watched it lay about Frodo’s shoulders as the pair stood before him in Ilithien’s dawn. Boromir had fallen. Yet, he desperately wanted to speak to someone else, another member of that ill-fated Fellowship, to hear their tale of the journey from Rivendell to that back alley. He needed to replace the horrid images painted by Sam’s words with ones that drew Boromir as the man he remembered.  
  
_But who? Who was left to tell the tale? Mithrandir._  
  
His former tutor would know, of course, and would tell Faramir the truth. But, he had been an elusive figure in the White City since coming to the rescue out on Pelennor Fields. Faramir had searched last night before retiring, but could find no trace of the old man anywhere.  
  
_Perhaps I will have better luck today. Perhaps I will catch up with him and we can talk this whole thing through._  
  
The elevator doors slid open and Faramir stepped into the empty car. It ascended silently, giving him a perfect view of the scars on the open field below. He leaned his forehead to the chilled glass and sighed.  
  
_Oh, yeah. Almost forgot about that._  
  
His return trip to Osgiliath.   
  
_A chance to prove my father right again._  
  
The search for Mithrandir and answers would have to wait.   
  
_And Father’s folly might just make that academic._  
  
With the elevator slipping into the stone shaft, hiding the view of the darkened eastern sky, Faramir closed his eyes, and mouthed a selfish prayer.  
  
_Please give me the chance talk to someone about all of this before I leave. Someone who can give me the answers I need. Anyone who can give me back my brother._  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
On the eighth floor, Pippin yawned. Seven o’clock had come early; or maybe late considering he had not closed his eyes much all night. The room too quiet, the bed too big, he had tossed about, tangling the sheets into knots, pounding the pillows into lumps. It was no use, though, he had been unable to rest, to sleep without Merry.  
  
_Silly habit, have him beside me. It’s not like we sleep all junked up even. Merry on his stomach, me on my back. Merry on the left, me on the right. Room enough between us to sublet. But, he is there just at my fingertips. Always._   
  
He had reached out in the flatness of the dark, but touched only cold empty. He strained his ears to hear gravely breathing and nonsensical dream mumblings, but heard only the whirring fan. Last night, Pippin had needed the comfort of his love, but was left alone with just his thoughts.   
  
Without Merry’s presence to distract him, his mind wandered back over all that had happened in the past three weeks. Some events he lingered over, the Institute and Treebeard’s place, but that caused the space beside him to grow colder. Those other times, the ones of pain, fear and torment, Pippin ran from, those better left buried. One moment, however, he continued to revisit, despite his best efforts to put it into the recycle bin. The moment when Bergil placed her hand over his.   
  
_Her skin was clammy and not all that soft. Why can’t I let that go?_  
  
Pippin had known girls back home – silly, giggly, pink-ribboned, too much hairspray, talk on the phone, Friday night movie date, prom corsage, no we can’t go all the way, but you can touch me there – girls. A few had even relented and the sex had been hot, heavy and brief. But, that touch was not from a girl. Bergil was a _woman._ A real career minded, cosmo drinking, deep, red lipstick wearing, own apartment with queen sized bed, condoms in the dresser, garter belt and teddy, thank you for a lovely night, maybe I’ll call you sometime, woman. And she had wanted _him._  
  
Most of his ceiling staring centered on how he could be missing Merry beside him and still wonder how Bergil’s lips would feel against his own. Round about four, so confused, Pippin had even gone in search of Gandalf for advice on this paradox. No such luck in his quest for answers, though. The old man was not in his room, no where to be found. Returned to his room, head and heart arguing, to greet the dawn, flipping through hundreds of cable channels, Pippin not really seeing any of them.   
  
At 6 o’clock, a caller had interrupted his quandary with a directive. Be at the executive offices at 7:30 am dressed and ready to go to work. Dressed meant the new uniform delivered the evening before. While he did like the black blazer with the White Tree stitched on the pocket, and he could live with the rest of the suit, even though it was a little itchy, he had serious qualms about one of the things that clipped to the stiff belt. The radio, standard issue that looked like it had seen better days. That was OK. The other, however, was not. A holster, empty, but still a holster, a holster that was designed to hold a gun. Now, Pippin had seen many doormen in his life, but none of them had been packing. _Except that guy at the FBI building in DC, but I don’t think that counts._ He stood in silent dread, just staring at the empty holster, conjuring up its implications. _What kind of assignment – will I be expected to -_ In the end, he could not bring himself to clip it to his belt; it sat bulky ominous in his pocket as he waited for the elevator to take him up.  
  
_Really want, need, to talk to Gandalf. Merry, Bergil, holster, new job, and we’re not even going to think about that dark cloud in the east I saw this morning out my window. I’d settle for a quick walk-by and he can even call me a fool as often as he wants if he just talks to me._  
  
Another yawn shook through him as he stepped in to the empty car. He began to take odds as to which one – his loneliness, his bewilderment, his uneasiness, or his weariness – would plague him to distraction.

_Think I could call in sick my first day?_  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Gandalf paced the empty elevator, counting each second as one that he could not afford to lose. Disaster had to be averted; a wrong must be righted before it had the chance to play out.  
  
_That foolish man! What was he thinking, demanding his son take this suicide mission? What can be gained by sending Faramir to Osigiliath? Only more death, that’s all. Damn him!_  
  
Cool cordiality, begrudging acceptance, a fine line of tolerance. All could describe Gandalf’s treatment whenever his previous wanderings had brought him to the White City. Denethor, always politically savvy, could not afford to snub his guest, so the doors to Minas Tirith remained open to Mithrandir. Barely. This time, however, was different. Instead of cool ice, the CEO had spit fire, accusing him of machinations from the absurd to the eerily accurate. The news of Boromir’s death, courtesy of New York’s finest, Gandalf knew would be devastating to a father inordinately fond of his elder son. The grief in the man’s eyes was genuine as Peregrin told the story of Boromir’s valiant last stand. Cut to the quick by a wound that surely would never heal, Denethor now held his son a martyr.  
  
_But sorrow was not all that clouded his eyes. More, much more, is at play here._  
  
Denethor knew the one man who could replace him as the head of Gondor waited in Rohan.   
  
_Could the news have come from Rivendell? No, Elrond knows the importance of a well kept secret. And neither Galadrial nor Celeborn have spoken to Denethor in years. Then where?_  
  
He supposed the information could have reached Minas Tirith from a third party, but even CNN’s coverage of Isengard, splashed around the world for the past week, held no tidbits, no names mentioned with the exception of Saruman. Denethor would have to be extremely lucky to catch the fuzzy figures in the background of those news clips, and even more eagled-eyed to spot Islidur’s heir as he stood in a crowd. One among many, Aragorn’s existence was known only to those who knew his face.  
  
_And what of his predictions of doom for Gondor?_  
  
Those mysteries plagued Gandalf as he had walked last night, too keyed up to find rest. He demurred company, preferring to keep only his thoughts close, the answers to his questions lurking in the dimness just out of reach. Starting in the basements of Minas Tirith, he had sought familiarity in the crumbling and dusty texts abandoned by the modern world. Written in a language only a handful could now read, he relived the golden age of Gondor. But, as with all things in the world of men, complacency took root in the crevices and soon brother turned against brother, and more than kin was lost in the long ensuing struggle. Many gifts fell beneath the rubble of ambition, a few that should never have been forgotten.  
  
_Is that it? Could that be the source of Denethor’s knowledge? If so, he has taken the way to madness, and his judgment cannot be trusted._  
  
Fear drove Gandalf to leave ancient history behind. He must ask Denethor point blank, confront him and demand an answer. As if one horrible mistake was not taxing enough, a new crises reached his ears as he climbed up from the catacombs. Whipping through the city’s grapevine, even more distressing news had Gandalf rushing to the Citadel: just before dawn, following his father’s orders, Faramir would return to Osgiliath.  
  
_One son dead, and now he’s ready to sacrifice the younger? This is truly insane!_  
  
The plan was simple: appeal to Faramir and stop him from throwing his life away. Convinced all he need do is speak to the man, Gandalf waited impatiently as the elevator rose silently. The rest of Gondor bustled below, a panic sizzling from one person to the next over what the days ahead would bring. If the long sabotage against Gondor, or the sacking of Osgiliath, or the rout on Pelennor Fields had failed to make an impression, the dark clouds brewing to the east could not be missed by even the most clueless. War was coming and it was coming fast.  


_Please give me the time, just a few moments, to convince a son of his father’s love._

  
*****  


  
  
  
_Does this seem too desperate?_  
  
Bergil looked down at the Stryofoam container carefully balanced in her hand.  
  
_It’s just a simple gesture from one friend to another, that’s it. All I’m saying is, ‘Have a great first day, Pippin.’_  
  
Gravy biscuit and sausage, (with grape jelly, just in case) and a large black coffee burned into her palms as she stood smushed into the corner of the elevator.  
  
_I’ll just give him the food, wish him a good day, then leave. To spend the rest of my day thinking about him._  
  
Bergil was at a loss to explain what had driven her to set her alarm an hour early and to rush around like a headless chicken this morning just to be there to greet him. In no uncertain terms yesterday, Pippin had told her that he was not available, not interested and not heterosexual. Yet, here she was, slightly nauseous from the aroma of fast congealing red eye gravy, ready and willing to put herself out there again. All those other times, all those other men had ceased to exist for her after the truth of their sexual proclivities were revealed. But, not Pippin. He had stuck in her mind like a popcorn husk between her teeth, and no matter how hard she poked and prodded him away, the oh, so very gay man would not let loose of her thoughts.  
  
_His charm? His wit? Or the feel of his hand against mine?_  
  
Only one day they spent together – an afternoon, really – and that cup of tea was interrupted by the horror out on the fields. A few stolen hours, yet still she could remember every word, every laugh they shared.  
  
_His eyes? No, I know what it is! That smile! That sweet, innocent, yet wicked smile. The one that I dreamt about last night and don’t think I could ever forget._  
  
It had been enough for her to forgo an hour’s worth of sleep and miss her gym time just to see Pippin smile again.  
  
_That smile! Those lips. Wonder how they feel? Would they be warm? Smooth? Strong? And his tongue. Bet he can use that particular muscle for other things besides talking, despite what Merry says._  
  
She closed her eyes, and heaved a defeated sigh.  
  
_Now Merry is even intruding on_ my _thoughts!_  
  
She felt like an idiot, delusional and silly. The crowd piled into the elevator, laden with suitcases – and boxes and bags and bundles - and concerned expressions, paid her no heed, but she imagined all heads were filled with thoughts about her pathetic attempts to catch a man who so obviously did not want to be chased.  
  
_He’s taken, and he’s gay. And here you stand with breakfast for him. If that’s not the textbook definition of desperate._  
  
Never claustrophobic before, Bergil’s mouth suddenly went dry. A garment bag poked into her, she could feel someone breathing on her neck, the sound of the collective heartbeats in that crowded elevator deafening. The now lukewarm coffee slipped in her sweaty hand.  
  
_I’ve got to get out of here, get off this elevator._  
  
She was at the mercy of the other passengers, however, stuck in the corner as she was. There was no moving from her spot save for a hysterical scene of pushing and shoving, shouting and screaming and she had no desire to draw anymore attention to herself. The sideways glances that she was positive contained smug sympathy for her stupid fantasies were sufficient to hold her in place. The elevator continued its climb to the top and Bergil, whether she wanted to or not, was along for the ride.  
  
_Maybe he won’t be there. Maybe he’ll be off working somewhere else. If I’m lucky._  
  
Bergil’s wish dashed upon the rocks of her past experience with men.  
  
_Oh, I’m so screwed._

  
  
  
*****

  
  
  
Shifting from one bored foot to the other, eyes watering from staring at the disappearing sun too long, he ran all the information revealed from that remarkable conversation over in his mind.  
  
_Frodo and Sam are alive. They left Ilithien two days ago, headed for Mordor. Guided by a golem, they went by the Stairs, the path of Cirian Unsomething. A bad choice apparently. Boromir tried to take the Ring by assaulting Frodo. Faramir is headed back to Osgiliath on what surely is a mission to get him killed._

A minute ten, tops. Same time, all three out of the elevators, question, answers, shocking frightening, heartening, CEO’s son introduced, Gandalf’s plea rebuffed, Pippin demurring to a more private moment.

_Let’s see, anything else? Oh, yeah, there’s something up with my new boss and the fact that he knows about the Ring can only mean trouble. The black cloud filling the sky was sent by Sauron to allow his armies to travel during the day, and they are headed straight to Minas Tirith where they plan to obliterate all living things. Jesus H Christ! My head hurts!_  
  
“Pippin?”  
  
A startled turn, Bergil standing there by the elevators.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
A moment’s hesitation…then a gaudy smile brightened her face. “I brought breakfast for your first day on the job,” soggy Styrofoam container handed over, “your favorite.”  
  
Tipping the lid, Pippin looked in to a white glob surrounded by a film of brown. “Not very hungry, but thanks.”  
  
“Guess the coffee is in the same shape. Sorry.” Both hit the trashcan with a thud.  
  
“It was a nice thought anyway.”  
  
An awkward silence…silence…most awkward…awkwarder si -  
  
“So, Gerbil –"  
  
“Pippin, I –"  
  
They spoke at the same time, then stopped.  
  
“I just wanted –"  
  
“Needed to know –"  
  
Voices overlapped again.  
  
“You first.”  
  
“No, you go.”  
  
“Nana Banks always said ‘Wisdom should always lead and be gracious to leave the door open behind her.’”  
  
“Uh,” not quite sure what to do with that particular pearl, “how’s the job?”   
  
Expression was apparently expecting something else, some other topic. “Oh. OK,” unsaid words pushed aside, “you’re looking at it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My job.”  
  
“But, you’re just standing there.”  
  
“Yup. That pretty much covers it. I stand here until the CEO needs something and then I go and get it for him. My job is to stand. How am I doing?” Pippin struck a dramatic pose.   
  
“So far, so good, I guess.”  
  
“Yes, that’s the important job handed out to Peregrin Took. Standing. Never mind that should Denethor call for my aid, I have no idea where anything is, that I don’t know my way around Minas Tirith and would probably get lost just changing my mind. I am Mr. Steward’s personal assistant. I am at his beck and call.”  
  
“That sounds important. He only takes –"  
  
“Important? Important!” The hard edge of sarcasm showed up out of nowhere, “oh, yes, the job of errand boy is vital to the defense of Minas Tirith, that’s for sure.”  
  
And so did guarded unease. “There’s really no need to –"  
  
“So vital, in fact, they gave me -” pulled back, black blazer flashed the nine millimeter automatic clipped to his belt, “- this!”

“Good lord! They don’t expect you to have use that, do they?”  
  
“How the hell should I know? No one’s told me anything! Just stand here, they said, stand here until called. But, not one peep, not one! He’s in there. See the light under the door? He’s in there and I’m out here standing. I’ve been standing here for two hours. Two hours! Standing here looking out the window. Standing here while all around people are preparing. Standing while my friend’s sneak around Mordor. I’m standing here while Sauron is closing in. I’m armed and dangerous just standing here. Standing here protecting this fucking piece of carpet!"  
  
Bergil chose her next words very carefully. “Pippin, put that away, please.”  
  
He looked down. The gun, safety disengaged, shook in his trembling hands. “Gerbil, I’m –" a step toward her, but she jumped away. “Oh, god.” The weapon quickly slapped into holster. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, didn’t even know I had, it’s just that, you know, all of this, and then there was, and Gandalf said, and I can’t, I remembered, I mean, I don’t know!” Turning away from her abruptly, Pippin walked to the long windows facing east, scrubbing face roughly with his still shaky hands. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“You just startled me, that’s all. Never had a gun pulled on me before.”  
  
“Don’t worry. I know my way around firearms. I would never, you know. Fuck!” Fists pounded against the glass. “I just can’t stand it!”

Warily, approaching a cornered animal wary, Bergil joined Pippin by the window. “Can’t stand what?”  
  
“All the people I care for the most are out there, and I stand in here. They are out there in danger, risking their lives and I’m safe behind these walls. They are facing death and I wait. I don’t want to fight. God knows, the idea scares the piss out of me! But, this waiting to die, doing nothing, is worse!”  
  
“Who said anything about dying? The White City is strong, her walls will hold,” said the Queen of Denial.

“Oh, really?” Perhaps time for a reality lesson from one who knows. “Look out there. Tell me, what do you see?”

“I see,” a cursory glance – towers and buildings and monuments, that standards. “Minas Tirith. I  know things are bad right now, but -”

“Bad doesn’t quite cover it, Gerbil.”

“The news, saw on Facebook, Rohan is coming.”

_Merry will be with them, maybe we’ll have a chance to say –_

“I, you, can’t give up hope!”

Pippin laughed, a harsh, derisive sound. _Thought the same thing, too, back with Treebeard, a million years ago. Before I was burned by the Eye, before I left Merry, before I watched Faramir walk away, before I looked into Gandalf’s eyes and saw the truth._ “A fool’s hope, Gerbil, only a fool’s hope.”

Apartment, church, grocery store – home. Those people in the elevator, valuables packed, those cars on the road out, the line of tail lights unbroken, population abandoning. Boarded up windows, sandbag piles, artillery on rooftops, armed patrols and searchlights and emergency vehicles on standby, a city going to war. Her reflection saw the falling tears.

“What’s going to happen?”  
  
Pippin took her hand and squeezed, but offered nothing. _The hope of a fool, said this fool of a Took._ They stood there before the windows of the Citadel, hand in hand and watched together the ever darkening sky.  


  
  
*****

 

 

  
Faramir was in a daze. Four simple words from a young man named Peregrin - or was it Pippin - and his world became clear.  
  
_“He saved my life.”_  
  
The conversation brief and hurried, Faramir had stood in the lobby of the Citadel and listened to the tale of his brother’s final deeds.  
  
_“He saved_ both _our lives.”_  
  
After that, Faramir had little attention to give to what Mithrandir was telling him. He only played at listening to the old man, absently showing how to smack the bottom of his old radio to make it work for his father’s new personal assistant.  
  
_“He stood there and faced down those orcs. Just kept shooting and shooting. Never once thought about himself.”_  
  
When the terse call came from the inner office for Pippin, when Mithrandir’s rant repeated for the third time, Faramir excused himself and headed down to the motor pool garage, his step a little lighter.  
  
_“He’s a hero, Mr. Steward, a genuine hero.”_  
  
Destination reached with spirits soaring.  
  
_Boromir didn’t die in disgrace. My brother was a hero._  
  
Mood plummeted when he walked out into chaos.  
  
“Good. You’re here. Frances, tie that down tighter! We don’t want it shaking loose!”  
  
The football field length garage awash with people scurrying, packing, shouting, loading, cursing all in preparation for the return to Osgiliath. He recognized some of the faces; a few were survivors of the last disastrous foray outside the City’s walls. All of them were young, however, and Faramir felt the burden of command smack him right in the chest.  
  
“Tighter, Frances, I said tighter!”  
  
Faramir grabbed at the man’s arm before he could run across and show Frances exactly what he meant by tighter. “Charlie, what are you doing here?”  
  
“No, NO! Three men per vehicle! Going with you, Faramir.” He swiped sweaty, blonde hair out of his eyes. “They called for volunteers.”  
  
Charlie Osborne, perpetual hanger-on and follower all through high school. Three years behind Faramir, Charlie was the one kid who never seemed to mind all the teasing and jokes sent his way. Always sunny, always willing. Faramir had had to tutor him in Physics, and because, he gained an everlasting friend. A low-level manager in the Facilities department, Charlie had never stopped looking up to Denethor’s wayward son. _And now he’s ready to get himself killed? Not if I can help it._  
  
“But, Claire and the baby -"  
  
“Are safe with Mother in Boca Raton. Where the hell is Justin?”  
  
Faramir pulled Charlie to the side, away from all the frenetic preparations. “Don’t want you to come along, Charlie.”  
  
“Too bad, ‘cause I’m your second in command.”  
  
“There are others, more qualified. You don’t need to –"  
  
“Like hell! Every HVAC there I personally installed. I know Osgiliath like the back of my hand!”  
  
“As do I, so you won’t –"  
  
“Well, then that makes two of us.” He turned and shouted at a passer-by. “Don’t forget, each Jeep gets four crates of ammo!”  
  
Grip tightened on the young man’s arm. “I don’t want you going, Charlie.”  
  
Smile beamed as he looked at childhood idol. “You’re going, I’m going.”  
  
“They will be waiting for us, waiting with guns drawn.”  
  
“I sure as hell hope so! I want the chance to kick some orc ass!”  
  
Shaking the young man’s shoulders, a desperate attempt to make him understand the true nature of the situation he was so gleefully walking into. “This is not some lark, Charlie! Not a simple exercise, not playtime! This is for real!”  
  
“I know that, Faramir. I saw what happened yesterday.”  
  
“Good. And this time, they won’t be so generous. This time –"  
  
“This time will be different ‘cause I’ll be at your side.”  
  
“This time will be suicide!”  
  
Charlie titled his head, a simple gesture for a very basic idea. “You’re leading. That’s enough for me.”  
  
Voice cracked with frustration. “I’m leading you to your death, Charlie! Don’t you know that!”  
  
The bright smile finally faded from Charlie’s face. “So be it.”  
  
“I _must_ go. I must obey my father’s wishes. But, you don’t.”  
  
“I know that. I’m still going with you.”  
  
_Why can’t I make him see the truth?_ “I don’t want the responsibility of your death on my hands. I can’t take that –"  
  
Charlie shrugged out of Faramir’s grasp. “Then don’t. The decision’s mine to make. I’m going. We should be ready to leave soon.” He turned and walked away.  
  
“Think about your family, Charlie!” The goofball from high school spun around, and Faramir was introduced to Charles Osborne, the man.  
  
“I am! Why do you think I’m coming with you?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Why do you think any of us volunteered?”   
  
“But, Charlie –"  
  
“We could run, hide, but in the end we won’t be safe. Our wives and husbands, sons and daughters, won’t be safe. If we turn our backs now, we have only gained - what, a day, maybe two, of safety? That’s all we’ll have before Mordor takes over. And when that happens, it doesn’t matter where Claire and the baby are, or where anybody is, ‘cause no one will be safe, no one will be free. We are all going to Osgiliath to give our families a chance. The same reason why you go, Faramir. To give Gondor a chance.”  
  
“There are no guarantees, Charlie.”  
  
The smile returned. “I know. But, if you go to Osgiliath, we will follow.”  
  
Watching Charlie blend back into the crowd, Faramir took note of the people he would be leading.,memorizing faces, putting names with each person. Maggie, standing in the door of a Jeep – third year med student. Arthur, loading the last of the gear – CPA. Adam, adding more clips of ammo to his belt – IT tech. Tasha, leaning down to tie her boot – fifth grade teacher. The guards stood watch on the walls, trained personnel stationed strategically throughout the White City and could not leave their post. This was all that was left.

_All regular people, all now soldiers of Gondor. And for all intents and purposes, already dead. Dear Eru, what have we become?_  
  
Faramir shut his eyes, attempting to hold back the voices swirling in his head. He heard Pippin – _“He died a hero, faced down those orcs, a genuine hero.”_ And Mithrandir – _“Don’t throw away your life because of misguided loyalty!”_ And finally his father’s – _“Why can’t you be more like Boromir?”_  
  
“Ready to lock and load, ladies and gentlemen!” Charlie’s exuberant voice echoed through the garage.  
  
_My loyalty lies with Gondor, Mithrandir. My loyalty lies with her brave people._  
  
Squaring his shoulders, Faramir joined Charlie and Maggie and Adam and all the rest as they climbed into the Jeeps ready to leave for Osgiliath.  
  
_Father, I will finally do as you wish. I will be more like Boromir. I will die a hero._  


  
*****

  
  
A paper cup seeped cold coffee out between seams, leaving a trickle on a desk top. The elevator dinged its arrival, opening an empty car onto a silent hall. The piped-in music could be heard, each note, every word clearly for there were no conversations raised to drown out the soft rock sounds. Screen savers - flying windows, stars streaming by, Spiderman swinging from rooftop to rooftop, tumbling vacation pictures of the kids at the beach - cheered no one. The office was deserted, the floor desolate, save for one old man standing at the window. Minas Tirith, evacuated of unessential personnel for the coming battle, stood in sepulcher silence.  
  
_All my long years I’ve been waiting. And now that the confrontation is at hand, I find time is against me._  
  
He watched four Jeeps wind their way across the field as the sun disappeared.   
  
The long dark day had begun.


	9. 9

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Nine  
  
  
  
Gimli was a practical man. Things you could touch and see and hear - the sound of a backhoe gouging into the earth; the smell of newly poured concrete; the sight of the blue sparks of arc welders balancing precariously on steel girders hundreds of feet off the ground. That thrilled. That he understood. Normalcy to Gimli was blueprints and machinery, building and designing. His comfortable world consisted of tangibles. Standing at least half a mile underground, surrounded by a vaulted ceiling prickling with stalagmites and stone walls rubbed smooth from eons of erosion, with the maddening trickle of never ceasing water in the background, and on the lookout for an army of zombies, Gimli, the engineer, was completely out of his element.   
  
Following Aragorn had been a no-brainer. Regardless of where they were headed, the freelancer needed his help and support, so Gimli would be there, no questions asked. Accompanied by Legolas and the few newcomers, Gimli had left Rohan, secure in the knowledge that Aragorn knew what he was doing.  
  
Gimli had said nothing when they pulled into the parking lot of the Endless Caverns, a popular tourist spot tucked into the Shenandoah Mountains. He had kept his mouth shut when Aragorn trailed off and away, skirting the no admittance signs and slipping down a pathway not on the official tour, dragging his little entourage behind. Not one word of protest had passed his lips when the group emptied out into the dark cavern, the meager beams of their flashlights just making the gloom more oppressive. But, now. Now that his feet were numb from the seeping cold of the hard stone, now that his stomach grumbled an annoyed reminder of missed breakfast and lunch, now that they had been waiting for over a silent hour, Gimli could no longer hold his tongue.  
  
“Elladan,” voice pitched low.  
  
“I’m Elrohir.”  
  
Gimli rolled his eyes, illustrating his concern over the mistake. “Whatever. Aragorn. What’s he doing?”  
  
The blond head turned to the middle of the cavern. “Standing.”  
  
“I can see that!” irritation hissed, “But, why? Why is he just standing there?”  
  
The other blond head, Elrond’s other son, turned. “He’s waiting.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
The twins shrugged in unison.  
  
Gimli looked to Halbarad, the freelancer friend, who took the silent, raised eyebrowed question…then shook his head no.  
  
“Legolas, do you know?”  
  
For a moment it seemed as if Gimli would finally receive his answer, but then Legolas sighed perplexed, but content. “Not enough evidence to form a hypothesis.”  
  
Said scant eveidence so far - Aragorn calmly waiting, arms at his side, head tilted slightly back, as if listening…for what? An announcement over the loudspeaker, a brass band leanding a parade of the dead?  He hadn’t moved in over an hour, and didn’t look inclined to do so for another. “This is ridiculous!”  
  
“Gimli! Be quiet!” Legolas snatched at the engineer’s arm.  
  
“Why?” His voice returned again and again, ping-ponging in the dark, “Who’s going to hear me? There’s nothing down here but mushrooms and mold.” Yanking away, Gimli marched to cavern’s center, to their cruise director of this fascinating subterranean excursion. “I’ve been patient here, but enough is enough, Aragorn!”  
  
“Gimli, lower your voice!”  
  
“Give it a rest, OK?” Legolas put on ignore. To Aragorn – “What are we doing? How long do you plan to just stand there?” Not a muscle moved, not a word spoken in answer, the man a perfect statue. “Down here doing nothing while the crisis is up top. Down here waiting while the fight could have already begun. And we’re missing it! Am I right?” Strength in numbers sought, a confirmation of complaint’s validity, Gimli polling the audience, their response shuffling feet and discomforted glances away. “Rohan needs us, Arda needs up! What are we waiting for? Paths of the Dead? More like Paths of the deag end.” Now, which way was out? Proactive Gimli searching for the exit. “Besides, I’m cold, hungry,” the tiny hairs on his neck prickled to life, “and I’ve got to take a – what’s that?

Dirge-like and melancholy, a sound, in the distance, far within the mountain, began. Like the wind of a turbulent storm, the sound – now a moan – pushed outward, rushing through cracks and gullies, gathering momentum. Shaking through the ancient stone, the sound – now a shriek – poured out into the cavern, overwhelming, surrounding, penetrating flesh and bone. Stripped of all humanness, the sound – now a wail – engulfed with torment and pain, stopped thought, breath and heartbeat.  
  
The walls began to shimmer, turning solid into murky light and Gimli vowed he would never open his mouth again.

 

  
  
*****

 

  
  
_All there is. All there ever will be. Nothing more. Just this. Dead, yet not dead. Lingering, drifting, waiting. Guilt, shame, regret, remorse. Nothing else, but this._

_Go away! Go away! Don’t bring warmth and life, breathe and blood, reminders to taunt and mock. Go away! This place belongs to the dead, the living are not welcome here. Leave!_

_Gave up, turned away. Flesh and bone, smell and touch. No right to claim, to yearn. Leave! Words are but foul wind, words hold no meaning to the dead. No promise of oaths fulfilled – lost, all lost! – can bring peace._

_Deserters. Traitors. That’s the like you plead your case to. Liars and cheats you ask to fight at your side. Turncoats and thieves you beg for help. Why? **Why?** You offer freedom and rest for those doomed for treachery and deceit. Why? _

_You promise redemption, redemption for me? The boy, the scaredy-cat, the coward, the one who ran away from the battle, left the streets of New Market in search of safety, the one who left his friends to die, the one whose name was Private Thomas Aycock. Forgiveness for me?_

_Get out!_

_Do not deserve, no longer worthy of compassion. Get out! No mercy for me, for us! How dare you bring hope, dangle the reward of deliverance. Fool! Accept our word? We break vows, we forsake pledges. Insane! Get out!_

_Too much, remembering too much. You brought it here, to us, to me. Memories that make this hell unbearable. Long ago thoughts of light and air. Remembrances of a life once lived. A snatch of mama’s lullaby, papa’s church-going scowl._

_No! Don’t! Stay away! Don’t want to remember! Don’t want to see what I lost, what I had!_

_Martha’s hand tucked cozy into mine, the baby’s soft breathin’ on my neck. Did she mourn for me, ya’ think? Did she give a  passin’ thought to her solider husband? One tear shed?_

_Why did you have to come here? Go away! Leave! Get out! Who are you to extend salvation? Why did you have to start me to rememberin’? Want it, now I want it all! Can you do that? Can you return summer’s bliss and cold water’s quench? Will I have pride and dignity again? Will Martha be mine? Islidur’s heir, if I fight for you, can you give me back Tommy?_  


  
  
*****

 

  
  
Aragorn swiped at the tears, blinking in the bright afternoon sun, made harsher by the glare off the water below. His companions staggered out into the day behind him, two grimy filthy, the others just a bit mussed, but all running as if asses were on fire, tumbling to the rocky plateau in breath gasping heaps, eyes also assaulted after hours in the dark of the mountain. Hours spent searching and waiting, hoping and pleading.

_Well, that was a complete waste of time. Islidur’s heir, my ass!_

“Thanks, Strider, that was fun,” Halbarad, a sprawled out starfish, recovered enough to laugh, situation tragically humorous, “can’t remember the last time I was chased through the dark by a bunch of dead guys with flintlocks.”

“From a historical perspective,” the sole smudge from their underground foray tissue wiped from Legolas’ cheek, “a unique experience.”

Still under the thumb of his self-imposed silence vow, Gimli just rolled his eyes.

Sitting up, Halabard’s canteen was offered. Aragorn declined. “You and that fancy schmancy sword, it was worth a try. We’re no worse for it.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Legolas indicating the sky to their left.  
  
From his seat at hill’s apex, rocky mountain face as backdrop, Aragorn squinted to the east and the dark cloud descending on Gondor. _Sauron is at the White City. And I’ve been wasting time making deals in the dark._  
  
“Gondor is that way?” A scruffy ranger beard scratch. “And how far do you reckon it is from here?”  
  
Legolas after a moment’s reflection - “Fifteen, twenty miles is my guesstimate.”   
  
“Well, we’d best start moving if we want to get there before the shooting stops.”  
  
“Don’t want to bring this happy moment down,” Elladan started, “But, our cars are on -"  
  
“ – the other side of the mountain,” Elrohir finished.  
  
Halbarad stood up with a grunt. “Then it looks like we’re walking.” A groan escaped from Gimli, vow wavering in the face of a long slog. “You ready, Strider?” An offered hand to Aragorn.

_Am I ready? Tales have spun out for ages, more songs and rhymes boasting the return of the king have been forgotten then blooms on the once flowering White Tree. And in each one, he marches through the front gates, triumphant and brave, invincible and strong, prepared to take his place as the head of Gondor and history._

_Am I ready? My tale is not like those filled with glory, written to bring hope in sad times. Unlike those songs, my tale is simple and plain. Estel, son to a fearful mother. Strider, his life spent hiding in shadows. Aragorn, the Ringbearer’s failed guide and protector. A man with the hubris to believe he could redeem the dead._

_Am I ready? Through accident of birth, connected to a generational line I did not draw, others look to me now, and from ages past, to be that hero king. I do not seek fame, never wanted to be beloved by more than just one. Yet, I will not turn my back on Minas Tirith. A promise was given. Maybe not Islidur’s heir, maybe not the returning king with a conquering army, but Estel, Strider and Aragorn will fight to the final breath._  
  
Away from the roiling dark in the east, gaze focused on to the river below. “Walking will take too long. We must get to Minas Tirith now.”  
  
“OK, then we run.” More Gimli groans, louder this time.  
  
“Better idea. Hal, give me your pack.” Handed over without protest, the rest of the group waiting for fishing trip to reel in a beat up and dented set of binoculars. Aimed right down at the water, a scheme fermented behind the scratches. “We take those.”   
  
Snatching the binoculars away, Halbarad checked out Aragorn’s plan. “Well, I’ll be damned. Always wanted to try my hand at one of those.” Bobbing on the waves, hulls of slick ebony reflected the Shenandoah River. “OK, I see about fifty, sixty guys who are not going to take kindly to us borrowing their boats. That’s twenty for each of us.” A glance invited others along. “You up for it this?”

Nods all around, men of action more than ready.  
  
“We go in pairs, Elladan and Elohir, on the left,” tiny hairs on his neck began to prickle, “Legolas, you and Gimli take right. Hal and I will -” a moan, wailing with sadness of rage and – _It can’t be. No, not possible. I failed. Islidur’s heir commanded, they –_ the mountain began to shimmer.

“Oh, yes, Hal. I think we’re _all_ up for this.”

_Perhaps it is time to introduce the hero king._

 

  
  
*****

 

  
  
Turning head toward the window, Merry was attempting to find a polite way to get rid of the sesame seed stuck between his teeth, and Eowyn was politely ignoring the spitty sucking sound. For the two going AWOL, that’s what passed as after lunch entertainment in lieu of a working radio.

Not wanting to call attention to their departure, she had “borrowed” the rattle-trap of a Ford pickup used around the farm now only for garbage detail, and who needed tunes while taking out the trash? A single trailer, also way on this side of better days, clanged behind them, jostling and swaying with each rut on the back way, the horse no doubt feeling it, too, as they passed the October day breaking the speed limit in their mad dash to arrive at Minas Tirith in time.  
  
In the quiet of the cab, Eowyn sipped her Diet Coke and Merry sucked at his teeth, both coming up blank for new topics of conversation.  
  
While still in Pennsylvania, they had found plenty to talk about, having much in common, growing up seven years and a hundred or so miles from each other. Both agreed on what they liked best about their home state: the rich colors – the greens, blacks, golds and reds of summers and the crystal clear white of its winters. What they despised? The roads! A string of deep potholes sent the Ford’s passengers knocking about the perfect illustration.  
  
They compared first days and first cars. They commiserated over picture days and the ‘popular’ crowd. Eowyn attended public school, so could offer nothing back but sympathy when Merry complained long and loud about navy blazers and clip-on ties. And Merry kept mum with own story as Eowyn spoke of her first drunk - a high school graduation party and the subsequent all-nighter in her best friend’s bathroom – although, for some reason, he did remember fondly – inordinately fondly - his graduation from _middle_ school.  
  
College tackled next, each explaining their choice of major. Eowyn could never decide, and ended up graduating from Temple with a double major in Business and English. She still wasn’t satisfied, though, and was currently taking classes online working toward a philosophy degree. That’s where the two parted ways: Eowyn saw education as an adventure, always something new to discover, where Merry viewed college as a means to an end, and that was independence. He chose Columbia precisely because all his family had attended Penn State, the law because he was expected to be the doctor in the family.  
  
Pennsylvania slipped into Maryland, which became Virginia. Eowyn decided on a quick lunch run through McDonald’s, and Merry agreed with a noncommittal shrug. While their mouths were full of Big Macs and fries, talking ceased for manner’s sake. But now that the only thing left of lunch were the crushed containers and that faint greasy smell, the conversation stumbled.  
  
“Sure wish the radio worked. Some Incubus or ICP would be killer!”  
  
Eowyn smiled wanly. “I only listen to classical.”  
  
OK. Music’s out.  
  
“Did you think _Kill Bill: Volume Two_ was as good as One? I mean, Uma tore it up in the first and I didn’t think it could get any better, but, Damn! here comes Two and –"  
  
“I never saw either of them.”  
  
Strike out movies, too. What’s next? TV? Books? Politics? The state of the national -  
  
“My uncle likes you, you know.”  
  
Merry did not see that coming. “Really?”  
  
Eowyn nodded as she passed a slow moving station wagon, burdened down with at least three generations of family stuffed inside. “Oh, yes! He told me so. Several times, as a matter of fact. ‘That Brandybuck kid, now there’s a good worker.’ He thinks highly of you, Merry.”  
  
The smile could not be held back for nothing. “I think pretty highly of him, too. Pretty cool what the old guy did for me.”  
  
“Don’t know that my uncle would like to be known as ‘the old guy’.”  
  
“You know what I mean,” Merry retrieving his drink from the cup holder, “gave me a job, no questions asked.”  
  
“ ‘A fine young man,’ Uncle Theoden said,” Eowyn deftly dodging a huge pothole. The truck swayed and the trailer clanged. “‘Any father would be proud to call Merry his son.’”  
  
“A fine young man?” Dr. Pepper nearly spurted out through his nose. “Those words have never been attached to my name before.”  
  
“Oh, come on! Surely your parents are proud of you. Look at –"  
  
“My parents think I’m going to hell in a rainbow hand basket.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”  
  
Playing with the rings on his fingers, the truth revealed quietly, “Pippin.”  
  
And what do you say to that? “Oh.”  
  
Propping feet up on the dashboard, arms draped across knees, resignation to state of affairs sighed. “Doesn’t matter really. We have not agreed on much of anything, my parents and me, for a long time. Pippin is just the most recent argument. And the loudest.”  
  
“It does matter! Family is important. Don’t burn the bridge leading to your parents,” Eowyn knew of where she spoke, her loss still a dull ache, “a moment’s whim can take them away.”  
  
“Those bridges are two-way, remember? And ours is a charred ruin.”  
  
“It can’t be what they hoped for, a son-in-law instead of a daughter,” Eowyn trying not to sound judgmental, “most parents want to become grandparents one day.”  
  
“That’s what my sister is for.” The anger and resentment seething off Merry was palpable. “OK, I may have provided the fuel, but they lit the match by refusing to even meet Pip.”  
  
“Perhaps they just need time to adjust.”  
  
“Time?” Feet dropped to the floorboard, soundly squashing the McDonald’s bag. “Christ, we’ve been together for four years! How much more time do they need?”  
  
Eowyn had to admit that she was impressed. Her longest relationship had lasted eleven months, and that was only because she had managed to dodge his phone calls for two weeks. “Well, yes, that’s ample time to become accustomed to the idea.”

“We’re not an _idea,_ ” the snappish retort had the hallmarks of being oft repeated, “or a trend, a phase, a rebellious prank, or an alternative lifestyle.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

“Save it. Doesn’t matter. _Our_ life together, we write our _own_ definition.”

Rain began to spit, dotting the windshield, worn wipers squeak thumping across the broken glass.   
  
“They always said, my parents always telling me, ‘We only wish you to be happy, Meriadoc. Find someone to love and who loves you back.’” A solid assumption that shrill, patronizing voice of Merry’s impression an inaccurate one of Mrs. Brandybuck. “Only they failed to show me the hidden clause in that wish, the one that states the love of _my_ life must meet _their_ criteria and standards.” Squirming around in the worn seat, deftly avoiding the poking out spring, Merry looked Eowyn head on. “And that’s what makes me so fucking angry! They say it’s not real. Pippin and me. What the hell do they know?”  
  
Already tripping over one unseen faux paus, Eowyn tread lightly. “They do have some experience on the subject, Merry.”  
  
“Don’t want their ninety proof kind of love.”  
  
“Love has many levels, different aspects –"  
  
“Bullshit. Love’s love.”  
  
“That’s a rather childish way to look at it, don’t you think?”  
  
Merry crossed his arms, a tight shield across his heart. “OK, you seem to have all the answers, what is love?”  
  
“You mean, how would I define love?”  
  
“Yeah, what’s love to you?”  
  
Eowyn chose her words carefully, having occupied many hours contemplating this very subject. “Mutual respect, similar goals, a commonality of purpose. A merging of two people to create a viable unit.”  
  
Several blinks…laughter busted out. “That’s it? Sounds more like a business deal.”  
  
She covered irritation at his flippant remark by adjusting the rear view mirror. “Well, what’s _your_ definition of love?”  
  
Merry licked his lips, pursed them for a moment, opened them, closed them again. The silly grin seemed to happen all on its own. “Pippin.”  
  
_It can’t be that simple. Can it?_ “But, what about building something permanent? What about a house and family and a place in the community and a future? Don’t those figure into the picture at all?”  
  
“Doesn’t mean shit if your bones don’t ache when you’re apart, and your day’s not lived until you share a kiss.”  
  
“Well, yes, I agree that a physical aspect is important, but –"  
  
Merry rolled his eyes. “Hell, Eowyn! Can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s not about sex. You can get that at any bar, grocery store or Sunday mass.”  
  
“That’s right! It’s not all romance and passion. Life is lived in the everyday. Reality will impose upon the most blissful of relationships, and –"  
  
“And that’s when your circle is needed the most.”   
  
Eowyn frowned, not understanding. “Your…circle?”  
  
“The never ending circle, one into the other, forged by your love. It’s strength and comfort, foundation and refuge, because two halves become the whole. _That’s_ love.”  
  
_The never ending circle. Aragorn…and Arwen?_ “Very poetic words, Merry.”  
  
A slight blush tinged his bearded cheek. “Well, actually they’re Frodo’s.”  
  
“Frodo? The Ringbearer?”   
  
“Yeah, that one.” Like there’s tons of other Frodos walking around. “He was always writing stuff like that in the margin of his notebooks. Usually with Sam’s name doodled somewhere close.”   
  
“And who is Sam again?”  
  
“The other half of Frodo’s circle.” Shifting to face forward, Merry sucked on his drink, making noisy slurpy sounds as the straw searched out the last of the Dr. Pepper. “Frodo and Sam. God, I haven’t seen them for three -” dry cup slammed to the floorboard in anger. “Three weeks they’ve been out there going it alone. God knows what they’ve been - fuck!” A fist struck the dirt streaked window. “ _Fuck!_ I’m such a loser!”  
  
Eowyn downshifted to begin the struggle up the next hill. “You’re not a loser, Merry. You are –"  
  
“Feeling sorry for myself ‘cause I -” a revelation, intimate, damning, nearly broke the surface, pushed under just in time, “ because I’ve got to ride in a piece of shit truck with no radio. What the hell kind of a friend am I?”  
  
“The kind of friend who steals a piece of shit truck with no radio, putting all thoughts of his own safety aside, to rush south towards a battle that the good guys have very little chance of winning.”  
  
With a wave of his hand Merry dismissed the praise. “Don’t make me sound all noble and shit. Just going ‘cause somebody’s got to keep an eye on Pippin, and I don’t see Gandalf playing watchdog. There’s no telling what he’s gotten into down there. I mean, he’s smart, don’t get me wrong, smarter than me, but common sense and Pip Took are mutually exclusive.”  
  
Eowyn had to raise her voice over the whine of the old engine. “Is that why you’re here? The other half of your circle needs you?”  
  
“Yeah.” Merry caught Eowyn’s eye in the rearview mirror. “And you? Why are you on this suicide mission?”  
  
“To protect my home,” the answer quick from long rehearsal, but _\- that’s not all, is it? That’s not the whole truth. Admit it! I went against Uncle’s wishes just to follow Aragorn down to Minas Tirith to prove myself worthy. Show him what – not silly, girly things like – but bravery and skill and – if he could see on that battlefield, fight right by his – come to me then, and – and – and that makes me the biggest loser, running after a man who – Aragorn’s circle forged a long time ago._ “To fight for what’s right,” _Still alone, still searching for my other half. Will I ever find –_ “going to the White city to kick Sauron’s ass.”

They shared a moment of common conviction, before the misfiring of the truck’s engine jerked it to an end.  
  
“Ya’ know,” Merry’s sly smile, “technically, I wasn’t the one who stole this truck.”  
  
Eowyn slapped at his arm. “But, we’re in this together!”  
  
“Honestly, Officer, I’ve never seen this woman before she offered me a ride. Even showed me a little leg to sweeten the deal.”  
  
“Officer,” Eowyn joining in the game, “If you only knew how little my leg offered him. Now, yours on the other hand…”  
  
“Nah, too hairy for my tastes. And speaking of tastes,” Merry picked at the dashboard’s gullies, pulling out little balls of petrified foam, “I would have jacked a sweeter ride.”  
  
“Crappy truck or not, this was all your idea, may I remind you.” One more downshift, gears grinding in protest. “And that’s what I’m going to tell the old guy when I see him.”  
  
Just like the little train that could, their banged-up truck with the beaten down trailer finally made it to the top of the hill. Spread out before them was the Shenandoah Valley, its autumnal splendor, like jewels spilled by a careless royal, or toddler tossed crayons, was brought to slick clarity by the falling rain. The beauty, breath-taking and awe inspiring, except -  
  
“Is that?” Merry inexplicably afraid to raise his voice.  
  
Interlacing their fingers, Eowyn squeezed his hand, giving and drawing comfort. “Courage, Merry.”  
  
The truck began its descent, moving faster and faster, and Merry knew it wasn’t gravity that aided their way south, toward the horizon’s enormous black stain. They were being sucked in by the malevolence crouching to strike.  
  
“Dude, we should have jacked a tank.”


	10. 10

 

 

**The Ring Unmade  
** Chapter Ten  


 

  
  
“Do you see that?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _That!_ That right there!”  
  
Both guards squinted into the cloying darkness that held the White City hostage. _And right in the middle of the day. Damndest thing I done seen!,_ the old men who usually sit outside the barbershop in the Old Town exclaimed before being shooed inside by their blue-haired wives, _Coming up a nasty cloud, that’s for sure!_  
  
“Still don’t see anything.”  
  
“Are you blind? Right there, that dot. I think it’s moving.”  
  
“You’re crazy. That ain’t nothing but your imagi – wait. It is moving. What the hell?”  
  
“Do you hear that?”  
  
Both guards strained their ears, searching out into the preternatural silence squeezing Minas Tirith. _No birds, no bugs, not even the wind, no sound at all,_ the pink ladies waiting to lend a hand, a friendly smile and magazine to the sick and injured gossiped in the deserted hospital cafeteria, _Like the volume’s been turned all the way down._  
  
“I think it’s a car. Yeah, I definitely hear a car engine.”  
  
“Makes sense since that’s what’s coming across the field. Going like a bat out of hell, too.”  
  
“Damn! Can’t drive worth shit, weaving all over the place.”  
  
“Coming for the front gates.”  
  
“Do you smell that?”  
  
Both guards screwed up their faces as an acrid scent shoved across the battlements from the east. _Smells like the men’s crapper down at the VFW on corned beef and cabbage night,_ the new recruits complained as they stood shivering on rooftops, uniforms still stiff and clean, _Yeah, All-You-Can-Eat buffet night._  
  
“Think there’s something else out there. Something -”

“That guy’s nuts!”

“No, really, I think there’s something com -”

“Shit, he’s headed for - open the gates!”

“It’s a Jeep.”  
  
“Gonna’ ram right into them if somebody doesn’t OPEN THE GODDAMNED GATES!”  
  
“Shit. Oh, holy hell.”

“What?”

“Knew it, knew something was out there, crawling, slithering across the -”  
  
“What? _What?_ ”  
  
“Look.”  
  
“What the hell are you – what the hell am I -”  
  
Both guards stared across the field as the sound of the main gates ground open, the stench consumed, watching the darkness take terrifying shape.  
  
“We are so fucked.”

  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
Those deployed on the ground level of Minas Tirith were all in a tizzy when the order to open the gates trickled down. It went against the one standing order each had had shouted in their faces. “Do NOT, under any circumstances, open the gates!” Yet, here they were, scrambling around doing just that. And for what? A lone Jeep whose driver appeared to be headed for a whopping DUI.  
  
Opening the gates was not a simple thing, too. In their current locked-down situation, all codes had to be entered twice, all 14 character passwords typed correctly. Then the gears and levers and whatnot must have time to cycle through the sequence before the huge stone monoliths, intricately carved with reliefs of a battle that no one for many generations even remembered, could begin to move. It was a painstaking, tedious process; that’s why the gates had always remained open. In recent memory, at least. And just when massive stone had begun to move, and the reason for the whole exercise streaked through the narrow opening, the call came to ‘CLOSE THE GODDAMNED GATES!’ So intent on following these idiotic and confusing orders, and sending everyone from the sergeant to Regis Philbin to the Netherworld, the beleaguered gatekeepers had no time to notice the path of the troublemaking Jeep, or the sight blocking mass that now covered Pelennor Fields.

  
  
*****

  
  
“That’s the - it’s – it’s - what the hell is he doing?”  
  
The shouts and questions were left behind as the bullet riddled and mud streaked vehicle raced into the White City at breakneck speed. A crowd ran after as it headed straight for the huge statue of the proud solider on horseback, known only as Bubba and on more than one occasion decorated with the pranks of the graduating senior class, that dominated the main square. And that’s where it finally came to rest, smashed into the base, metal and fiberglass twisting, glass shattering, engine spewing, one long note of horn blaring.  
  
“Come on! Help! Get him out of -”  
  
It took three to yank open the crumpled driver’s door to get to the injured man. The blaring stopped, leaving only the hissing of the destroyed engine and the grinding of the closing gates to fill the air, when the bloody torso was gently lifted off the steering wheel.  
  
“Oh, Jesus. Faramir, the CEO’s – are those – arrows, three sticking out of – what the fuck - is he a -  what the hell -?”  
  
Questions ran rampant as did directives barked into radios calling for EMTs and fire control. Flash lights and flood lights chased across the wreckage, trying to illuminate the mystery.  
  
“Only him, only Faramir. There were more, more people went with - at least twenty. Where are they?”  
  
Vomiting replaced conversation when the severed heads of Faramir’s group were discovered littering the back seat of the Jeep. Glassy eyes stared at floorboard and headliner, mouths screaming a silent story.  
  
“Over here, right here! Get out of the way! Make room!”  
  
Emergency crews and firemen arrived, moving with expert ease to take control of the situation. Faramir’s limp body was pulled from the wreckage and swiftly whisked away, while foam billowed out, inundating what was left of his Jeep. The crews exited as quickly as they came, leaving the square silent. Over in seven minutes, Gondor’s soliders stood in the dark at three o’clock in the afternoon, dazed, confused and frightened.  
  
Then the drums outside the white walls began to beat.  


  
*****  
  
  
  
The Palantir slipped from Denethor’s trembling hands, rolling across the carpeted floor, through the door, to outer office, still glowing red. He did not bend to retrieve it, just allowed it to lie there, half hidden under his executive desk. It didn’t matter anymore. No need to look, to see, for it was over. Denethor had looked into the seeing stone and witnessed the end.  
  
_Screaming, shrieking in pain, begging, fighting for his life, the small creature – naked and pitiful - passed between torturing hands. Brutalized and used, he twisted in the flames of Mordor, while orcs howled with laughter. Whips seared his flesh. He was without mercy, without hope, completely alone. Stripped and broken, The Ringbearer succumbed._  
  
Despite disastrous tidings, Denethor felt a growing sense of pride that he alone had foreseen this. With all of Mithrandir’s wisdom, Elrond’s knowledge, everyone else’s faith, only he believed that this would be the Ringbearer’s demise; to be taken and crushed.  
  
“I told you so,” Denethor’s lips curled up into a self-satisfied smile, “I told you! I was right! Idiots! Fools! Now what do we do? Now that your puny college student has fallen?”  
  
Stumbling, he reached out to the one thing that could calm his nerves. He didn’t bother with a highball this time, just drank thirstily from the decanter. Scotch trickled down his chin, darkening lapels, slipping under collar. The pain behind his eyes needed this.  
  
_The Ringbearer has fallen, and now the Ring is in Sauron’s grasp. What to do now? When all hope is gone? What do we do now?_  
  
“We fight, that’s what we do! We fight! Mordor will have to slaughter each and everyone of us before Gondor is broken!”  
  
He dropped the empty decanter at his feet and immediately went in search of more. His usual remedy had failed to drown the pain; if anything the red hot fire pokers were more intense, burning their way through his brain. Jack Daniels disappeared greedily.  
  
_Minas Tirith is strong. She will hold. The White City has never been taken, and she will not today. Let Sauron beat against the walls. We will stand firm and tall!_  
  
“But, why should we fight alone? This is not just Gondor’s struggle. Too long have we born the brunt of Mordor’s rage. What of the rest of Arda? Where’s Rivendell, and Laketown. What of Galadriel, Celeborn and their lofty company? Where’s Theoden? Where the hell is Rohan?”  
  
Gin and vodka joined in the quest to quiet Denethor’s pain. Soon his liquor cabinet lay desimated, but his head still screamed.  
  
_Cowards! Every last one of them. Too weak, too frightened to come to our aid._  
  
“You know what I say? To HELL with them! Bring everything you’ve got, Sauron. Show yourself! Gondor will stand! No one is as proud and strong as we. We are the bravest and the best. I am in charge here, and I say the White City will turn red with our blood before I allow you to –”  
  
“Mr. Steward, sir?”  
  
Three timid knocks followed, breaking into his speech. Denethor glanced at his upraised fists, then back down to the floor, to the bottles scattered at his feet. “What? What do you want? Who is it?”  
  
“Pippin, sir. I mean, Peregrin.” The door opened a crack. “I’ve been told to give you an urgent message.”  
  
Squeezing the bridge of his nose, Denethor sought to bring his raging thoughts in line. “It better be more than urgent, Mr. Took. My explicit instructions were not to disturb me for any reason.”  
  
The door creaked open a little more, and a head stuck in. One quick glance about the room told a story it really didn’t want to know. “It is, sir. I was instructed to tell you that there’s been an accident.”  
  
His vision resolutely refused to focus no matter how much steely determination Denethor threw at his pounding eyes. He staggered to the small washroom seeking out cold water. “An accident? How does that concern me? Surely there are others who can handle this. That’s what I pay them for.”  
  
Venturing further into the room, his newest employee stepped gingerly around the empty decanters, “this is something you’ll want to attend to personally, sir,” eyes sweeping the room, the mess, the clutter, the desk - the object underneath the desk.  
  
“What could be so important to risk losing your job on the very first day?” Cool water dripping down neck from the wet cloth over his eyes helped to wash away some alcohol fuzz, but did nothing to assuage the agony of his head.  
  
“The accident, sir. Serious and perhaps fatal.”  
  
“Yes, well?” He did not have time for this. His city was under attack, for God’s sake. “What poor unfortunate soul brought you in here?”  
  
“Faramir, sir. Back from Osgiliath. It’s your son.”  
  
The cloth tumbled to the sink. “Faramir?”  
  
“Yes, sir. He’s in ICU. They say his condition is grave.”  
  
The reflection of a drunk, half crazed man stared accusingly back at Denethor, the visage all the more frightening because he unequivocally recognized each wrinkle and imperfection. “My son?” Though long overgrown from neglect, the path had never truly been lost, the pain in his head plummeting straight to his heart.  


 

  
*****  


  
  
Pippin felt his forehead. Again. _I’m hot. Do I have a fever? I am hot. And achy._ Pippin rolled his shoulders back to front, grimacing. _Fever. Aches. What’s next?_ Pippin shivered in his black blazer. _Right. Chills. Fever, aches, chills. Oh, my god! I knew it! Knew I would catch something. Damn hospital’s full of sick people, and sick people have germs._ Pippin coughed weakly. _Germs that start out as just a cold, then the next thing you know you’re enjoying the view of Highway 103 from a shaded hill in Mundy’s Garden of Perpetual Peace._ Pippin scrunched his body further against the wall, and checked his forehead one more time. _Yup, definitely have a fever. Fucking hospital!_  
  
The corridor of ICU where he fretted was awash with suffering. The battle outside had just begun, if the dull thumps heard through the walls were any indication, and already the hospital staff was overwhelmed with wounded. Normally a quiet place, the ICU today sat three patients deep in each room, tubes and wires and monitors and people running every which a way making a tangled mess that Pippin couldn’t see how anyone could make sense of no matter how many years spent in medical school. From his spot by the far wall, hands jammed in his pockets to stave off contamination, he watched the slam dance of stretchers and orderlies narrowly miss nurses loaded with IV bags who zigged and zagged around doctors dressed in stained and sweaty scrubs. The noise scraped along tired nerves until even his afterthoughts beeped like the machines keeping fragile human flesh alive.  
  
Of all the places in the world, the hospital was the very last one Pippin wanted to be. _Well, out on the field doesn’t look too grand. And over in Mordor’s not a picnic either. OK, third worst place to be. This waiting's worse than the CEO’s office._ But, he was stuck here, plastered to the corridor wall by duty and an unbreechable stare from Gandalf.   
  
“Stay there, Peregrin, and don’t move!” The old man had snapped when he arrived, then walked into Faramir’s room without another word and had yet to emerge to release prisoner from his sentence.  
  
Craning neck, Pippin looked through the large window across the hall. Nothing had changed. Faramir had yet to regain consciousness. Gandalf stood at the foot of the bed talking, hands purposefully gesticulating, to Denethor who slumped beside the bed. Had to stand on tip-toes, despite his new height, to even see the man and his son, and then it was only the slope of Denethor’s shoulder and the blanket bumps of Faramir’s feet. Sometime during the trip from his office to his son’s bedside, Denethor had shrunk. He sat as unmoving as his son, completely ignoring Gandalf’s harangue. Or so it appeared to Pippin for the Professor’s gestures grew broader and the color in his cheeks rose to a high flush, and he knew that meant the old man was angry having witnessed that state first hand. Many, _many,_ times. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of Gandalf’s fury again, so this fool of a Took remained steadfastly in place, ready to wait all night if need be - fever, chills, aches and a growing sense of panic notwithstanding.  
  
With nothing else to watch – the only other choices were blood and more blood – he gazed into Faramir’s room. It was Denethor’s son’s life that blipped and squiggled green across the monitor screens. The heartbeat, from what Pippin could tell, was steady, just as the rise and fall of the white accordion thing that pumped air in and out of Faramir’s lungs. A bevy of IV bags hung about dripping a rainbow of drugs; clear plastic tubing fought for supremacy into the man’s body. The odd thing to Pippin was, if all that stuff were not milling about, Faramir would look just like he was sleeping and not embattled in a fight for his life. _But, he’s not asleep, he’s hurt, he’s sick, and maybe dying, ‘cause that’s what happens in hospitals. You go in, and you don’t come out._  
  
The radio clipped to his belt squawked, the tinney voice coming out in fits and starts. Pippin banged on the bottom left-hand corner and tweaked the volume knob just like Faramir had demonstrated earlier today. The voice came out clear and strong.  
  
“They’ve got helicopters! Shit! Down, get down! Seven, eight, no nine fucking Black Hawks! Shit! Where the hell is Denethor?”  
  
Quick staccato sounds joined the dull thumps outside.  
  
The radio went dead.  
  
_Should I go and report about the helicopters? They both should know what’s going on as they stay in there and argue. But, I was told to stay here,_ right _here on this side of the glass. Telling Gandalf means me leaving here and going there. Into the room with those machines and tubes and IVs and Faramir and blood and…god, I don’t want to go in there. Gandalf needs to know. Please, don’t make me go in there!_  
  
Dilemma solved by Gandalf’s timely and stormy exit.  
  
“You are leaving your people in grave peril, Denethor. You are forcing me to take extreme measures!” The door swooshed-clicked shut without the CEO’s notice. “Now he choses to be a father. Now, at the moment of greatest peril, he remembers he - damn fool!” Gandalf swore under his breath as he paced back and forth in front of the room’s window. “Just given up. Won’t do a blasted thing. Not one finger. Damn fool!”  
  
Seeing an opening in the corridor’s body rush, Pippin ran to Gandalf’s side. Quickly matching pace with the old man, he let go of all the questions that had been building inside.  
  
“Gandalf, what’s the matter? Will Faramir be alright? What’s up with Denethor? He’s acting all weird and shit, isn’t he? I mean, that makes sense considering all the booze he sucked down, but still is screwy the way he’s just sitting there, not moving, not talking and I think I know why. It was right there on the floor, right there shinning just like the last time I saw it. But, how it got here to Minas Tirith when it’s in Rohan with Aragorn, I’ll never know. Of course, Aragorn’s not in Rohan anymore, or he shouldn’t be. Let’s hope so, even though there’s Black Hawks flying about, and that can’t be safe, downright deadly probably, and –"  
  
“Peregrin, what did you say?” Gandalf stopped and had to snag whirlwind Pippin to a stop beside him. He pressed, his voice raised above the hospital cacophony. “What did you just say?”  
  
Frowning, he attempted to recall recent blatherings. No one had ever asked him that before. When nerves prattled on, he was usually ignored or told to shut up. “What did I say when?”  
  
“Just now, Peregrin, just now!”  
  
He ventured a guess. “The helicopters?”  
  
“No, I expected that. Sauron would of course send the Nazgul to the fight.”  
  
“Nazgul?” Step out of the way of a nurse and her crash cart. “You mean those black dudes are out there?”  
  
Gandalf gazed down the corridor, down towards the end of the hall as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the raging battle out the window. The glass showed nothing but dark. “All nine I presume. The Witch King would never miss this chance to crush Gondor.”  
  
Pippin mouthed the words. _The Witch King._ “That doesn’t sound good.”  
  
“It’s not, believe me. And you’ve met him before. At Weathertop. It was he that stabbed Frodo.”  
  
The memory of his friend’s pale and pained face came back, and he rubbed at his shoulder in sympathy. “Definitely not good.”   
  
“Sauron is indeed desperate to win the day here at Minas Tirith.” And, as if on cue, the walls shook violently, tossing Pippin, Gandalf, and medical supplies about. “Everything will be lost if the White City falls, and Denethor has left her leaderless. I must go.” His white coat whipped through the air as Gandalf ran down the hall.  
  
“But, Gandalf!” A shout trailed after him, “What am I supposed to do?”  
  
“You are Denethor’s personal assistant. Do your job and stay with him.” The old man pace never slowed. “The front line is no place for you, Peregrin. You are much safer here.”  
  
The walls shook again. “Yeah, here is _much_ safer.” On the way back to his ‘spot’, he dodged an orderly leisurely wheeling a stretcher. Seemed odd amid all the frenzied panic, but with the bloody sheet pulled up and over, Pippin figured no amount of rushing would help that guy now. That one stretcher was followed by another, then another. A parade of death passed him by. The dull thumps that had become regrettably commonplace by now, grew more frequent and more pronounced. The lights flickered once, twice, three times. Doctors hollered orders, patients screamed in terror. And Denethor still sat motionless while Faramir’s blips registered his precarious condition.   
  
He heaved a great sigh of ‘poor me’ and shivered. _Great. The chills are back. And so am I. Back to waiting and back to doing nothing._  
  
“Pippin! _Pippin_!”  
  
Looking left, then right, a voice calling his name, searching out eyebrows shot straight up. “Gerbil!” She was standing at the other end of the hall, just outside the stairwell, beckoning him to join her.  
  
_Over there is not here, and Gandalf told me, twice, to stay put. Stay and watch the room._ One glance at the window: still the same. Like a photograph, the subjects had not moved, only the steady peaking of the green line showed any life. _Should be OK for a minute. Not like they could go anywhere, and Gandalf’s not here to yell at me. Unless he comes back._ The corridor lurched, slamming Pippin painfully back into the wall. _Nope, he’s busy. Just a minute. They’ll never know I’m gone._ Abandoning his post, momentary dereliction weaved its way down the trauma-clogged hallway toward the stairs.  
  
“What are you doing here, Gerbil? Unless you’re here to volunteer, but god knows why you would want to do that. I’m only here ‘cause it’s my job. Fucking fantastic first day, wouldn’t you say? Wait there, wait here. At this rate, I will spend the rest of my career –"  
  
Bergil placed her hand over flapping mouth for silence, then led him out to the stairs. Behind the steel door on the stone landing, the first quiet found in over an hour. Dropping her hand, Bergil grasped his wringing it tightly.  
  
“Thought you were going to find a safe place. You need to go to safety, Gerbil.”  
  
“I know, I know,” focus on their entwined fingers, “I just couldn’t until I did – that is – well, um – I didn’t want to go before I told you –"  
  
Stopping her clutching hands, which had become quite painful, Pippin stooped to catch her eye. She looked back under tear heavy lashes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”  
  
Swallowing twice, she squeezed eyes tight and blurted out, “We don’t know what’s going to happen, don’t know if either of us will make it through, and I just had to, ya’ know, once, just to know.”  
  
“Know what?”  
  
“This.” And she kissed him. Hard. Backing him flat against the stone wall, Bergil kissed Pippin like she was storming the Bastille. Never gave him a chance to protest, just went straight to work tasting, touching, probing, licking and biting everything that was Pippin’s mouth. It lasted as long as she could hold one breath, which was considerable since she played the oboe in the Minas Tirith Symphony Orchestra. They broke with a loud smack.   
  
“Well,” a satisfied nod, “now I know.” Mussing his hair, she gave a tiny squeeze to his arm then walked down the stairs.  
  
“Ger, uh,” Pippin’s voice cracked, “Gerbil?”  
  
Gazing back up at her handiwork, she smiled wistfully. “Goodbye, Peregrin. It was certainly a pleasure knowing you.”  
  
He couldn’t move, could only stare at her retreating form. All the energy had been sucked out of his body through that kiss. _She kissed me. No, she fucking nearly ate me alive, that’s what she did._ He gave a little laugh. _Gerbil kissed me!_  
  
Walking back down the corridor, nurses, doctors and orderlies moved to avoid Pippin this time, too preoccupied to notice anything but his tingling lips.  
  
_She kissed me, she fucking kissed me! It's like she reached into my mind and read my thoughts._  
  
Soft skin, a warm body, a delicate mouth had kissed him soundly. It was just as he remembered from the last time he had kissed a girl; at his going off to college party in the hot tub with Brittany Echols six years ago. He had felt quite the stud that sultry September night bringing the head cheerleader to tiny whimpers of pleasure. Brittany had kissed Pippin soundly then, too, and he had at the time thought it perfection. But, then came Merry.  
  
_Well, now you know how a_ woman _feels and tastes…and?_  
  
So accustomed to his lover’s hard mouth, Bergil’s had seemed almost limp by comparison. Instead of sweat and musk, white flowers lingered on senses. Different parts had been warmed by full breasts and thin thigh, not muscular chest and slim hips.  
  
_Well, how was it? Different, that's for sure. Was it_ good, _though?_  
  
Yes, he supposed it was good as kisses go. Yet, as far as his body was concerned, it could have come from his sister. He had felt nothing except the slam of her lips. Merry’s kisses always started knees to wobbling, his stomach to flip and the hairs on his arms to stand up. And if their mouths lingered further, certain body parts grew exponentially. Bergil had kissed him, but no wobbly knees, no stomach flips or standing hairs plagued Pippin, and everything was still the same size.  
  
_Was it good? Yes. Like Merry’s kiss? No._ Those _kisses are perfection._  
  
A crowd had gathered in the hallway, the noise of their shouts almost covering the booms from the raging battle. Pippin half ignored them as he traced lips again, more in memory of Merry’s touch then Bergil’s.   
  
_One thing that kiss did have going for it. No stubble burn._  
  
“Did you see which way they went? Did anybody see them leave?”  
  
“They couldn’t have just walked away! He was unconscious for god’s sake!”  
  
Pippin no longer ignored the crowd. “Shit! Oh, no, no, no, fucking, no!” He shoved his way to the front and plastered instantly sweaty hands on the glass. “Oh, fuck, no. This can’t be happening.”  
  
“Who was on duty? Who’s responsibility, who’s patient? Somebody should have been watching him!”  
  
Leaning forehead against the window, Pippin cursed his stupidity nine ways to Sunday.  
  
“Oh, Christ, he’s going to kill me, fucking kill me. I’m such a fool of a Took.”  
  
In Faramir’s room, the monitor played a solid green line, the single high note sang to no one.  
  



	11. 11

 

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter Eleven

 

 

 

  
  
“OK. How do I look?”  
  
Even Sam could not lie about it this time. The truth was painfully obvious. “Like a dork.”  
  
“Shit!” Frodo yanked his glasses off.  
  
“Oh, come on,” Sam soothed, replacing them. “What did you expect? I did the best I could.” One lens, the left one, had been smashed and beyond use, so Sam just punched it out. With a little twisting, the bridge straightened out relatively well, and was held firm by a strip of white medical tape. Both temple pieces had to be broken off and reattached, wound with the same tape to hold on to the frame. In fact, almost as much tape had gone into the repair of Frodo’s glasses as on bandages to cover his wounds. “You can’t see without them, and you certainly can’t feel your way around.”  
  
Frodo sighed, accepting his badge of dorky honor. “This sucks.”  
  
“In spades.” Lightly, a kiss bent to forehead, a flinch, Frodo turning it away. Sam sighed. “Here, eat this.”  
  
Lorien cracker accepted with a not-quite smile. “Thanks. Not really hungry, though.”  
  
“Try at least. You need to keep your strength up for, well, ya’ know.”  
  
Eat order attempted, but the first bite stuck in his throat, coughs racking battered body.  
  
“Here, here.” A bottle of water was quickly offered. Frodo took big gulps, tiny streams flowed out of the corners of mouth, down the front of dirty shirt. Sam snatched the bottle away. “Hey, not so much! You’ll make yourself sick!”  
  
“So thirsty, Sam.” Frodo swiped the back of his hand, the part not covered in gauze, across his mouth. “Just so fucking thirsty.”  
  
“Don’t drink so fast,” the water bottle returned, “like the cracker, just take small amounts.”  
  
A burp sorta girnned. “Sorry.”  
  
“Forgive you this time.” Sam stood for a moment checking on Frodo’s nibbling and sipping. When satisfied that he wasn’t going to gag to death, Sam grabbed pack intent on taking inventory. “Besides, we don’t have that much water left. Need to conserve.”  
  
There really wasn’t much for Sam to rummage through. Out of the 20 originally packed water bottles, only three remained. The rest along with what was left of hotel free soap and every scrap of fabric they had, save what they wore, taken to clean the filth from Frodo’s body, empty bottles lay discarded in the corner beside the pile of bloody clothing. The only things left in Sam’s pack were several package of crackers, an old newspaper, used bus tickets, Galadriel’s rope gift, Sting and a St. Mary’s pamphlet aimed at Catholic guilting for donations.  
  
“Too hot in here.” Frodo shifted against the wall, trying to find a more comfortable sitting position. There wasn’t one.  
  
“Yeah, but it’s safe. For now.”  
  
Finding this little side room had been relatively easy, getting here - the corridors between Frodo’s prison and this refuge had quickly become a game of step over, step around. Over severed limbs, around orc bodies covered in clotting black blood. Sam’s first instinct had been to run fast and far, get out of this place to anywhere else. But, Frodo was in no condition to travel, his injuries in need of immediate attention. The first unlocked door they came to, (three floors down. Sam had insisted on going that far, at least), became their hideaway.  
  
“No place is safe, Sam.” He picked at the bandage near his hairline. “Not anymore.”  
  
Shelter acquired, Sam’s next task had been Frodo. He mentally cursed and kicked himself black and blue, and into next week, for spending all his time reading sex manuals instead of books on First Aid. Then maybe he would have known the correct way to care for Frodo; then maybe his ministrations would have helped Frodo more; then maybe he could have stopped Frodo’s pain. Ill-prepared hands had done their best, however, lovingly washing the dirt out of scratches and cuts, wiping Frodo’s back to reveal crisscrossing welts of blazing red. Sam even cleaned Frodo of his own waste, biting inside cheek to hold disgust at bay. All that was common sense to Sam, all that was simple and straightforward, see a cut, bandage a cut, move on to the next, and the next, then next…next…next, their medical supplies in Sam’s pack dwindling rapidly. But, Frodo had endured far worse at the hands of Sauron’s orcs, and it was here that Sam’s usually solid hands faltered.  
  
“So fucking hot.” Frodo pulled at the collar of his shirt. “So hot.”  
  
The shirt was Sam’s actually, for all of Frodo’s clothes were either taken by the orcs or used for wiping away his torture. Miraculously, his sneakers had been found, discarded in a corner of that hell, and Sam snagged them before escaping. The shirt and jeans were too big for Frodo, of course, hung like oversized drapes from his stick-like frame, but Sam figured that was a blessing. No tight fabric to scratch against wounds, no denim to bind or tighten around damaged flesh.  
  
“Why don’t you try to sleep, Frodo. Get a little rest.”  
  
Sam had pushed the signs aside in favor of more immediate problems, wounds that he could quickly treat. But, once those had been tended, once Frodo was washed clean, he could no longer ignore the fact that his lover, his Frodo, had been attacked, assaulted…raped. The look of guilt and shame in Frodo’s eyes as Sam checked delicate flesh, he would never forget.  
  
“No. Don’t want to dream. Don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.”  
  
The oozing stopped, contusions and abrasions covered, residue and filth cleansed, and the pain kept tolerable through many Extra Strength Tylenol gel caps, Frodo now rested as comfortably as Sam could make him. But the bandages and drugs could not begin to heal all of his lover’s hurts.  
  
Frodo had not mentioned his ordeal, and Sam had allowed the subject to remain unspoken. Nor would Frodo allow Sam to touch him now. Perfunctory ones only, and then it seemed to Sam that Frodo merely tolerated the contact, the orcs ripping that comfort away, too. The first aid completed, Frodo had retreated to the far wall and away, where presently he sat, closed down, locked tight, Sam shut out.  
  
_Dear God, what do I do? What can I say? Tell him I understand, don’t blame, could never hate him? Do I hold him, kiss him, smother him in love? Or give him room, stand back and wait? How the hell can I make_ anything _right for him again?_  
  
Sam glanced back over his shoulder, catching Frodo’s gaze. Sam’s smile was returned with a weak one.  
  
_Give it to me, Frodo, give me your pain. I’ll take everything. It’s mine anyway. I deserve it all for abandoning you like a fucking coward. I’ll spend the rest of my life hating myself, knowing my weakness caused your suffering._  
  
And if Frodo had not endured enough, The Ring still hung from his raw neck. That more than anything else dragged him down, sapped his will, stole his soul. No book in Bag End, or anywhere else in this or any other world, could give instructions for Sam to fight against that.  
  
“Hey, what’s that?”  
  
Sam followed Frodo’s pointing finger up to an overhanging shelf. Something orange stuck out over the edge. Sam stood to investigate.  
  
“Overalls,” spreading one out for Frodo’s inspection, “uniforms, I guess.”  
  
“Smells like orc,” disgust absently searched, two fingers only in each pocket, “stinks like goddamn - no fucking way! I don’t believe it!”  
  
“What? What did you find?”  
  
Frodo held up a half empty pack of Marlboro Reds, then immediately dived back in for the lighter. “Yes!” Tossing the jumpsuit to the side, he anxiously pulled one slightly smooshed cigarette from the pack, immediately placed between torn lips - flick of the lighter, and a long, deep breath drew in, the tip glowing bright red in room’s sooty dimness. Exhaling slowly, closed eyes smiled. “Oh, fuck, yeah.”  
  
Never too fond of Frodo’s smoking, hated the tar flavored kisses, “Might not be a good idea, smoking. Someone could smell it,” but Sam actually silently routing for the cigarettes if they could make his love smile, bring a nicotine hazed calm.

“Who, Sam? They’re all dead.”  
  
Shrug conceded the point, exhibit 1 through 500 lay stiff right outside the door, and checked out the rest of the shelf. A couple of hard hats, badges and safety goggles along with what was left of a petrified sandwich after the mice had finished with it.  
  
“Sit down, Sam and join me.”  
  
Offered cigarette declined, but tired body did lower to the floor, leaning against the opposite wall. He sighed, stretching out his legs, half way across and ying to Frodo’s yang. He ventured to brush at feet with his, simple, playful, no overtones, just Converse to LL Bean. When Frodo did not move away, Sam took it as a victory.  
  
“What time is it?” Asked between savored drags, “what _day_ is it?”  
  
Sam checked his watch. _That was stupid._ Hard habit to break for a useless weight around his left wrist, yet he could not seem to part with it. “No clue.”  
  
“Merry and Pippin. Wonder where they are. Someplace having a beer most likely. What do you think, Sam? Sam? _Sam!_ ” Foot kicked out in near panic, “ ** _Sam!_** ”  
  
“Uh, what?” Sam blinked, shaking head to dislodge drowsy. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that.” Exhaustion, the concrete block chained to Sam’s ankle. “What were you saying?”  
  
When Frodo met Sam’s open and fully awake eyes, panic dialed to back. He re-settled against his wall, with a audible sigh of relief. “Like I said, Merry and Pippin. Wonder where they are,” next cigarette brought to glowing life from the stub of the first one. “Haven’t thought about them in days.”  
  
Sam was busy pinching the inside of his arm, trying a little discomfort to keep his eyes from wandering closed again. _Don’t you go to sleep. Frodo needs you._ “Well, you have been a bit preoccupied lately.” Undervalued understatement of the millennia.  
  
“Yeah, that reminds me,” inquiry through a cloud of smoke, “how’d you do it?”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Get past the fucking spider.”  
  
“I killed it.”  
  
Another coughing fit hit as Frodo sucked in too quickly. Sam’s help waved away. “I’m fine! Fine. You killed it? Fucking awesome. How?”  
  
Now that they were talking, mind actively engaged in something besides kvetching about circumstances, Sam was sure he would be able to stay awake. _I hope._ “Would like to say through my amazing skill and grace, but that’d be lying.”  
  
“Well?” Frodo took another long drag.  
  
Shifting and squirming, to find truth’s best possible and least embarrassing avenue. All routes blocked off. “I tripped.”  
  
“You tripped on to the thing and that’s when you killed it?”  
  
“No, I tripped before.” _Might as well tell him the whole story._ “While I was running away. The damn thing chased me all around the place, running in circles trying to get away, and my foot caught a rock and I ate the stone floor.”  
  
Frodo chuckled. “Interesting strategy, Sam.”  
  
More than willing to be the butt of his quips if it kept the sparkle in Frodo’s blue eyes, Sam despairing of ever seeing it again. “Yeah, I had it right where I wanted. On top of me, stinger whizzing by my head.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“I almost did. Instead I rolled over and in a desperate, yet stunning, move, while it – no, _she_ , the spider was a she, that’s what the orcs said, named -”

That bit of mutant arachnid trivia so not fascinating. “I don’t fucking care!”

Yeah, too much, too soon. “Anyway, I fell, she’s on top, I’m flailing, and Sting’s ends up in her belly all the way up to the hilt.”  
  
“Shit!”  
  
“Damn thing bled green gunk all over, then limped away. To die, I hope.”  
  
“And that’s when those happened?” Frodo indicating the bruises on Sam’s neck. “You did that when you fell?”  
  
“Uh, no.” Almost forgotten, his other knock on death’s door. “Gollum and me had a little run in before the spider.”  
  
“Smeagol did that?” Frodo looked closer. “Looks like – fingers, hands around - he tried to strangle you? And that one? The cut to your cheek.”  
  
Sam touched his face, trying to remember. _Oh, yeah. His other, **other** knock._ “Oh no, this happened when he pushed me off the top of the Stairs. That’s why I wasn’t there with you in the Tunnel. Fell probably thirty feet. Had to climb my way back up.”  
  
“He tried to kill you?”  
  
“Twice, the little shit! Hope he met Shelob in the dark.”  
  
“He tried to kill you.”  
  
Frodo stared blank for so long that perhaps he had fallen asleep with eyes open. “Frodo, you OK?”  
  
“You could have died.” A tear traced Frodo’s cheek.  
  
“Nearly did.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Sam,” a voice barely above a whisper, “So sorry.”  
  
“What are you apologizing for? It was Gollum, that son-of-a-bitch.”  
  
A second tear followed the first. “So sorry, Sam. My fault.”  
  
“That’s bullshit and you know it, none of this is your fault.”  
  
“All my fault, Sam. Why we’re here, how we got here. Gollum, The Stairs, my fault.”  
  
“Frodo, don’t.”  
  
“The Tunnel, the spider, my fault.”  
  
“Frodo, just don’t. Don’t. It’s not your fault.”  
  
Each tear that fell went along its journey alone. Frodo’s chin achieved, another would well up to take its place, marking his shame. “Everything, Sam, everything,” perfectly still, staring straight ahead, focused on nothing, “my fault.”  
  
_What do I do, Christ, what do I do?_ Sam knew what he wanted to do – reach out and hold Frodo until the hurt was gone. _But he doesn’t want me to touch him. Let me hold you, Frodo, let me touch you!_ “Nothing’s your - ”  
  
“My fault, Sam,” a quiet litany of self-blame, “Gollum pushing you off the ledge, Gollum strangling you, the spider trying to kill you. My fault.”  
  
“Fucking forget about me, Frodo.”  
  
“Believing Gollum, trusting Gollum, following Gollum,” cigarette burned slowly, a single column of smoke twirling upwards into nothingness, “my fault.”  
  
Too much for Sam. Yet, his tears had none of the quiet subtlety of Frodo’s, his falling big and hard, nose beginning to fill and drip. “Frodo.”  
  
“My fault, Sam. The spider, the orcs -” ash fell to the floor, “- the orcs, my capture, my torture, my fault, my – ” Frodo’s trance broke for the first time,   “- my rape. My fault.”  
  
Could listen to no more. Whether he wanted it or not, _Sam_ needed to hold _Frodo_. “Fucking stop!” He grabbed across and pulled him forward onto his lap, not crosswise, like a mother holds a child, but head on, legs outside of his, chests together, Sam wanting to feel Frodo’s heartbeat next to his. “Fucking stop it!” Holding Frodo’s face, he brought foreheads together. “Not going to listen anymore, OK? It’s not your fault.” A protest started, wiggling to be free, but Sam held firm. “NO. Not letting go. Not now, not ever. It was _not_ your fault.”  
  
Frodo ceased struggling, yet still refused to meet Sam’s eyes. “Sam, don’t.”  
  
“Don’t what? Speak the truth? Not your fault, Frodo, what happened to me, what happened to you.”  
  
“You weren’t supposed to get hurt!” Sucking in huge gasps of air, Frodo sputtered, his tears dripping down under Sam’s shirt. “My fault you got hurt!”  
  
“A lot of things weren’t _supposed_ to happen. But, they did.” Piece by tiny piece - like the flow of his tears - Frodo slowly splintering in Sam's arms. “Not much we can do about the past, except learn from it.”  
  
“Gollum - why didn’t I -”  
  
“See him for the dickhead that he was? Because you needed to get into Mordor.”  
  
“The orcs - I should have -”  
  
“Fought back? Knowing you, you kicked the shit out of those outrageously rude cunts.”  
  
“I want to -”  
  
“Get out of here? As soon as we can. I’ll take you out of here and back home, back to The Shire, back to our apartment above Bag End.”  
  
“Why didn’t I - I should have - I want to -”  
  
“What, Frodo, _what_?”  
  
“Why didn’t I…I should have…I want to…" Both bodies shook with Frodo's sobs. "I _deserved_ -”  
  
With that, it was Sam that shattered.  
  
“Stop! Don’t you _ever_ fucking say that again! Do you hear me?” Fingers bit into Frodo’s upper arms as he pushed him back and away, forcing eyes to meet, glaring intensity. “That’s the biggest crock of shit I ever heard. You _deserved_ it? Bullshit!”  
  
“Look where we are, Sam!” Frodo struggled in Sam’s lap and against his grip. “Look at your neck, your face.”  
  
“We’re here because we have to be, because of that fucking thing around your neck.”  
  
“Yes, _I_ am the Ringbearer! The choices were mine. Every one of them bad. And for that I deserved what happened.” A growing sense of fury supplanted his tears.  
  
“Deserved rape?” A laugh, sardonic and cruel. “You are really piling it on there, Frodo. Nobody deserves what happened to you.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I do! Let me go!” Frodo pushed against Sam, trying to free himself. “That and a whole lot more.”  
  
Grip just tightened. “They should give you a freaking medal for all that you’ve been through. Hell, elect you Pope, make you a saint!”  
  
“Don’t make saints out of stupid shitheads that blindly believe liars and force their friends into mortal danger.” Frodo wedged knees up into Sam’s stomach, pushing back, trying to break away. “Dammit, Sam! Let me go!”  
  
“Don’t remember being forced into anything, Frodo,” Sam taking Frodo’s assault, setting his arms rigidly, bracing back against the wall, his own anger burning hotly, “went of my own free will.”  
  
“No, you didn’t, Sam. My fault you got hurt.”  
  
“Well, you wouldn’t have gotten - SHIT!”  
  
Hands flew to his chest, nipple twisted savagely. Frodo dove off Sam’s lap scrambling crazily to the other side of the room.  
  
“You would be safe at home right now if it weren’t for me, for that promise that Gandalf weaseled out of you.”  
  
Sam glared at Frodo, nursing the sting. “I made a promise to you, too.”  
  
“And that’s what I’m talking about! You are here because of me! You got hurt because of me! And that,” a cigarette lighting pause, “makes it my fault!”  
  
“You want to deal out blame,” Sam up stiffly, levering off the wall and his side of the argument, “throw it all my way, Frodo.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“It’s my fault, Frodo! I’m the reason the orcs captured you!”  
  
A fierce exhale, the smoke whistling through lips. “Now who’s talking shit? You had nothing to do with – "  
  
“I ran away! I _crawled_ away like a scared baby!” Scream, tearing at throat, culpability and confession spit flying away. “I took the Ring and left you with those orcs. So, the fault belongs to me!”  
  
“Wouldn’t have been in the Tunnel if I wasn’t so fucking stupid!”  
  
“You wouldn’t have been raped if I wasn’t such a fucking coward!”  
  
Tossing cigarette to the floor, crushed out, Frodo advanced on Sam. “My stupidity put us where the orcs could find us!”  
  
Sam met him halfway. “My cowardice put you in the orcs hands!”  
  
Nose to nose, toe to toe, chests colliding, they stood there shouting at each other and comparing the size of their guilt.  
  
_You’re right! It’s yours! Do it! Go on, do it!_  
  
“Sam, you’re gonna’ listen to me!”  
  
“Prove _I’m_ right, Frodo!”  
  
_Do it! Treats you like a child, thinks you’re beneath him. Show him! Do it! Hit him!_  
  
“It all belongs to me, Sam!”  
  
“No, it falls on _my_ shoulders, Frodo!”  
  
_Now! Do it! Hit him! HIT HIM!_  
  
“Shut the fuck up!  
  
“Stop talking shit!”  
  
_DO IT! HIT HIM! HURT HIM!_  
  
“My fault!”  
  
“ _My_ fault!”  
  
_DO IT! HIT HIM!!_  
  
“MINE!”  
  
“ _MINE_!”  
  
Eyes seething with hatred locked.  
  
_HURT HIM!_  
  
Laughter cackled between them. Heard in the mind, felt on the skin, the Ring, pressed tight between them now, burned with sheer joy. Its wedge working the impossible - breaking apart the Ringbearer and his faithful companion.  
  
_KILL HIM!_  
  
A shared shudder. Sam blinked at Frodo. Frodo blinked back at Sam. Both stared at their fists, raised and ready to strike.  
  
“Did we just?” Frodo lowered arm.  
  
“Yeah, I think we did.” Sam uncurled fist.  
  
Both took a step back and stared at the Ring lying benignly on Frodo’s chest.  
  
_NO! NO, DON’T STOP! KILL HIM!_  
  
“Told me to hit you.”  
  
“Punch the shit out of you.”  
  
_FUCKING COWARD! GODDAMN WEAKLING!_  
  
Sam reached out to touch the Ring. Frodo protectively slipped it back under his shirt.  
  
“It promises things, Frodo,” a whisper of remembrance, “wonderful things. So hard not to listen.”  
  
“I know, Sam, I know.”  
  
Their eyes met again, and something happened that the Ring did not foresee, could not fight against. Instead of pushing them apart, its malice drew them closer. No longer one in, the other out, gone were inadequate adjectives and ignorant sympathy. Joined together, in heart and in soul, and now in burden as well. Now they both knew what it meant to be a Ringbearer.  
  
“How do you stand it? All the time, inside your head? You told me, tried to explain, but I didn’t get it, not until I - all that talking and talking…”  
  
“I listen to your music instead, Sam.”  
  
The two lovers stood together in awkward first date silence. They had nearly come to blows. _Over what?_ Sam thought. _Stupid shit!_ Frodo recalled.  
  
Not sure of his reception, Sam made the first move by tentatively brushing a thumb across Frodo’s cheek. “You’re doing the best you can.”  
  
“You came back for me.” Frodo leaned into his touch.  
  
“Why not say we both fucked up and leave it at that?”  
  
“Yeah, we’re both shitheads.”  
  
Cupping Frodo’s face, Sam moved closer and kissed him gently. “Forgive me.”  
  
“Yes.” Frodo’s hands went to Sam’s face as he kissed back. “Forgive me.”  
  
“Always.”  
  
The kiss, their first since that momentary respite on the Stairs, was interrupted not by orcs, ring or Sauron, but by a simple human need.  
  
Frodo yawned against Sam’s mouth, and he quickly followed suit.  
  
“How fucking romantic.”  
  
“Right. Time to get some sleep.”  
  
Return to the wall, sliding down, Sam sank to the floor, then beckoned for Frodo to join him. “Come here, you.”  
  
Crawling onto Sam‘s lap as before, legs around outside and front to front, Frodo snuggled head into Sam’s neck. “You OK to sleep like this?”  
  
“Don’t care how I sleep, long as you’re with me.” Sam tugged him closer, careful of the wounds on Frodo’s back. “As long as I can hold you.”  
  
Almost instantly, their breathing matched rhythms, hearts beat in time.  
  
“Don’t want to fight, Sam. Never again. Please!” the soft plea sighed across Sam’s skin. “Never again.”  
  
Top of Frodo’s head kissed once, twice, and all of him wrapped in protective arms. “Never fight again, Frodo.”  
  
In the middle of Mordor, Frodo and Sam snatched a brief moment of safety and peace.  
  
“What did it promise you, Sam?”  
  
_SAMwise, SAMwise, SAMwise._ “The World Series. And you?”  
  
_You are the Ringbearer._ "The world."  
  
To the west, the walls of the White City came crashing down.


	12. 12

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Twelve

 

  
  
“ …the rapidity with which this storm developed and the fact that it doesn’t appear on any of our radar. We will be keeping a close watch on this one. This is Meteorologist Jim Cantore for the Weather Channel. Your local on the eight’s is coming up next…”

 

*****

  
  
_Don, don, don, don, dah duh. Don, don, don, don, dah, duh. Doodeldoo, doodeldoo._  
  
Wildly inappropriate music considering the circumstances, but Pippin just couldn’t help himself as he skulked from shadow to shadow. As soon as he banished it from his mind, concentrating instead on where he was – the importance of – just how dangerous this could - the tune came back. Humming now, _Doodeldoo, doodeldoo,_ the theme from _Mission: Impossible_ keeping him company as he trailed Denethor.  
  
After an hour of fruitless searching the Citadel’s upper floors, through a stroke of dumb luck – he had stopped to rub sore feet and bitch about his plight – Pippin had glanced out a glassless window to catch sight of the AWOL executive traveling with a small entourage and a stretcher towards the Tomb. Careening crazily down dark stairwells, he had burst out into the gloomy air just as Denethor entered that foreboding stone structure.   
  
Scooting across the last of the deserted courtyard, accompanied by, appropriate or not, the bad ass spy themed soundtrack, making it to hiding place without being discovered, plastered back against the outside wall, panting, feeling slightly pleased with hide-and-seek giddiness. _Ollie, ollie oxen-free!_ Movie theme turned down, and breath stilled, Pippin leaned in to listen, see if he could hear any - voices banged and echoed inside, most he did not recognize or understand, but Denethor’s, strong and sure, very easy to make out.  
  
“Bring that here! Make it higher! Place him on top!”  
  
_OK, you’re here, you found him. What now?_  
  
Bolting from the ICU in a panic, the last thing Pippin had had time to make was detailed plans. All he knew was that he had to get Faramir back in bed before Gandalf found out or the man’s condition worsened. He considered himself lucky – the ground shook violently – in one selfish sense, that Gandalf was otherwise engaged and couldn’t scream about the screw-up. The wayward Stewards had been found, and all he had to do was get the patient back in one piece.

Gathered crowd and creepy locale a bit disconcerting, though. No plan to begin with, a contingency that could satisfy both henchmen and respect for the dearly departed not even a low level bullet point on CYA’s meeting agenda.

_OK, got a crazy man, and crazy man’s got his son._ Forehead swipe, sweat and anxiety accessing the situation. _Crazy ‘cause he looked into the Palantir. Right there, under his desk, saw it. A crazy man and his glowy bowling ball. Crazy, yes, but still just a man, right?_ Sweat, anxiety and a cramp in his left calf from hunkering down for so long giving a pep talk. _Just a regular guy, that’s all. Puts his pants on one leg at a time, eats and sleeps and drinks and farts and has a nasty way of staring that scares the piss out of me._ It wasn’t going so well. _I’ll just talk to him, reasonable like, just talk things through. I’ll talk to him and he’ll listen. He can’t be so far gone that he won’t listen to reason._  
  
With the movie theme back on humming lips, Pippin snuck his head around the monstrous left open stone doors and stole a peek inside.  
  
“Good. Now gather wood, lots of it. And find an accelerant. Lighter fluid or gasoline.”  
  
A whimper was on lips, he clamped a hand over mouth to stop it from breaking free. Back in the shadow of the door, he slumped to the ground, sick to his stomach with fear.  
  
_Sweet Jesus! He’s not crazy. Denethor’s fucking nuts! He’s going to burn Faramir, going to kill his own son!_  
  
“More wood, dammit! We need more! I want the light of this pyre to reach the heavens!”  
  
_What do I do? Oh, god, what do I do now? Talking’s out. He’s not gonna listen to me. He’s never gonna listen to me! Won’t listen to - Gandalf! That’s it! I’ll go get Gandalf, bring him back and he can take on the crazy bastard. I’ll go get Gandalf!_  
  
“That’s right, pile it all around. No gaps. Want it to burn hot and true.”  
  
_Not gonna make it back in time, even if I can find Gandalf at all. Faramir could die while I’m off running to get help. Got to do something now! But, what? WHAT? Talking’s out, and so is rushing the guy, not with all those others in there. Sneak in there and stop him, hit him, knock him out? Yeah, that could work, but I ain’t got nothing big enough. Nothing ‘cept what’s in my –_ pockets ransacked - _a radio, Breathsavers and fifty-two cents. Some McGyver I make. Shit!_ Mind quickly tore through all possible solutions - _Create a diversion? That only works with back-up. Try to find another way in and sneak up behind them? Yeah, slip in, lift a large unconscious man up and carry him out of there all by myself without anyone noticing. Like that’s gonna fucking happen –_ all tossed into the bin just as fast _._ Disgusted at his incompetence, mouth a little dry - impossible scenarios did that to him - he absently fished out one of his mints. _Make a noise out here, so they will come running and what the hell is - oh, yeah. I forgot._  
  
“Where are they? This is taking entirely too long! We must - what do you want?”  
  
“He’s not dead. You can’t do this.”  
  
Standing in the entrance way, Pippin soft spoken and pointing his gun directly at Denethor.  
  
“This is none of your concern, Peregrin. Go away.”  
  
“Faramir’s not dead. Sure, he’s hurt, but that’s no reason to kill him. You must stop this.”  
  
Denethor dropped a black bag, a hollow clunk against gray marble. “The White City has fallen. Listen around you, Peregrin. Can’t you hear it? The world is ending.”  
  
“Faramir should be in the hospital.”  
  
Denethor growled. “I will _not_ have my son’s body desecrated by those black fiends!”  
  
“But, he’s not dead!”  
  
“It is over. Sauron has won.”  
  
“You can’t burn him, Denethor.”  
  
A condescending smile drew the man’s lips upward. “And who is going to stand in my way? You? All by yourself, you intend to stop me?”  
  
Sweat summarily refused to clear out of his eyes no matter how many times he blinked. “If I have to, yes.”  
  
Laughter joined the smile. “That’s very humorous, Peregrin. Never knew you were a comedian.”  
  
“Fuck off!” Voice cracked, hated the way his arms trembled. “I won’t let you kill your son.”  
  
“Go away. I’ve got work to do.” Denethor turned, dismissing him.

The shot pinged against the stone walls. “I said don’t touch him!”

Moving fast, Denethor walked for the entrance and the infuriating interruption.  
  
“Don’t come any closer!” _Shoot! Shoot him!_ Could see the madness in Denethor’s eyes. “Stop! I swear to god, I’ll shoot! Stop!” _Fucking pull the trigger and shoot the bastard!_ “Stop, dammit, stop!” So close now there was no chance to miss. _Shoot him! You’ve done it before! Shoot!_ “Stop! Please!” He smelled of alcohol and resignation. “Stop, Denethor, stop!” _Just like before, like the garage. Shoot him!_ “Please stop! Please!” _Those were orcs, goddammit, this is a man! A man!_ “For fuck’s sake, I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” _Shoot him!_ The gun hovered at Denethor’s heart. _Shoot him!_ “I’ll kill you!”  
  
“You haven’t the courage.”  
  
One shove and Pippin hit the cold stone of the courtyard.  
  
“But, Faramir’s not dead!”  
  
“We’re all dead. Some of us just don’t know it yet.” Tossed, the gun clattered away, unused. “By the way, Peregrin Took. You’re fired.” Denethor shut the big doors tight.

  
  
*****  
  
  
  
_Jesus! Much more of this and they’ll be in my throat!_  
  
Shifting awkwardly, Merry moved aching family jewels to the left. That side held no more comfort than the other. He shifted again.  
  
“Quit squirming!” In front, Eowyn snapped, “It’s hard enough without you bouncing around. Sit still!”  
  
Tried to comply, but when he lost feeling in the right one, Pippin’s favorite because it fit in his mouth perfect, so subsequently _his_ favorite, panic managing to throw both of them off balance by reaching down to check inventory.  
  
“Dammit, stop moving!”  
  
The shift in weight, the raised voices and Merry’s clutching only exacerbated the already out-of-control situation. It took all of Eowyn’s skill to keep them from bumping into their neighbor.  
  
“Hey! Watch what you’re doing, idiot!”  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” apologies pulling the Phillies cap further down over her forehead, face kept out of sight, “won’t happen again.”  
  
“That’s for damn sure!”  
  
She stopped, allowing the rest of the crowd to move on ahead. A beat…another…she turned back to Merry and, with barely contained anger, told him to get off. “On the left, the LEFT side!”  
  
Merry’s slide down devoid of grace or skill, landing with a knee jarring thud on the dusty ground. He immediately clutched his crotch. “Fuck! That hurts!”  
  
Slipping down effortlessly and ignoring the man’s obvious pain, she grabbed a handful of shirt. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop complaining, I will leave you right here, just you and your balls all alone, to pray that the orcs don’t find you and shoot them off!”  
  
“I’m sorry! Geez, Eowyn, OK? I’m sorry!” Merry cowed and contrite, a trifle concerned that she would actually do as she threatened and that the orcs would do as she suggested.  
  
“We’re supposed to be back at the farm, or have you forgotten that? How are we going to remain anonymous if you keep announcing to everyone that we’re here?”

In an effort to hide in plain sight, Eowyn’s signature golden hair was currently tucked inside her leather jacket, under a ball cap. And gone was trendy hipster look of three day stubble and product tossled hair, Merry clean shaven, piercings absent, head sporting a tight fighting knit cap, both accomplished thanks to a Shell station on Route 33. The only thing that could give them away, besides being spotted by Theoden or Eomer, or a host of other familiar faces, were the sunglasses that apparently had been glued to their faces for neither had removed them even though the dark cloud had blocked out any need. Secret Service-like they traveled from staging area, a deserted town about 15 miles back, to here with the rest of Rohan toward Minas Tirith, always keeping to the rear of the pack. The strategy would have worked had Merry’s balls cooperated.  
  
“Never done this before, OK! The boys aren’t used to being smooshed that way!”  
  
Once her anger flared, it burned out quickly, Eowyn releasing Merry’s shirt with a long sigh. “I, well, I didn’t meant to, it’s just that, I shouldn’t have –" The words skipped around eluding any attempt to genuinely apologize. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Trying to keep a low profile and you wouldn’t sit still and that guy almost and if he had then and I would and we could be –" Now the words tumbled out of her mouth like rain runoff, but still refused to make sense. “Dammit!”  
  
“Yeah,” Merry rescued her, “I’m scared shitless, too.” His smile told of no forgiveness necessary. “So, tell me why we’re doing this again? Going against orcs like they’re cattle rustlers?”  
  
“Maneuverability,” Eowyn very glad to be off the hook, but nervous still about their position. A furtive glance at Rohan’s retreating columns. “And the element of surprise.”  
  
Merry pulled down on his jeans, seeking more room for tender flesh. “Surprised the hell out of me, that’s for damn sure.”  
  
“We’ve got to catch up. You ready?”  
  
“How far to Minas Tirith now?” Looking about, this was not the Virginia he remembered. Admittedly, the last two times he had passed through the state, on the way to Tennessee, he was stretched out in the back of his Land Rover while experienced with the route Pippin drove, singing along with Kenny Chesney at the top of his slightly off key lungs. But, he could still tell that something was not kosher. Too dark to see clearly, thanks to that black cloud, Merry’s unease stemmed from the silence; no birds, no dogs, no cars on the road. Only the distant booms. Like they stood inside a gigantic bubble. _A bubble with air that smells like shit._ Tongue run around mouth. _Tastes, well, wrong. Even worse than Newark air._ He spit, but the foulness remained. “How long till the cavalry arrive?”  
  
Horizon scanned again. The rest of her people had disappeared into the low hanging darkness. They were alone. Not a good idea _._ “Just over that ridge, and never if we don’t get moving. Come on.”  
  
“Wait! Just want to put something on before. OK?”  
  
“A cup?” Smirk sparkled as he rummaged through his back pack.  
  
“I wish. No, this.” Galadriel’s cloak pulled out and struggled on around his shoulders.  
  
Eyebrows raised in surprise. “Not what I expected.” She helped his fumbling fingers with the leaf-shaped clasp. “Makes me feel underdressed.”  
  
“Pippin made me promise to wear it when I came to Minas Tirith.” A peek at their mode of transportation. “Never thought I’d be arriving this way.”  
  
“You look very dashing. Just like D’Artaguan.”  
  
“No, Athos.” Institute memory, Merry smiled, bittersweet, the echoing of friends’ chatter. _We were all together then. The Four Musketeers. Will that chance ever come back around?_ “Or was it Porthos? Don’t think Pip ever made up his mind.”  
  
Three blasts rumbled through the ground. A not so gentle reminder of what lay ahead.  
  
“Time to get moving.”  
  
“Guess so.” He watched Eowyn swing up, then hold out her hand to help him. Apology glanced down. “Sorry, boys.”  
  
Up behind Eowyn, and plopped down hard, sent a flashing pain through stomach and their mount shimmying to the left. “Shit!” He wrapped arms around Eowyn’s waist, holding on with scared school girl tenacity. “OK, we ride into Minas Tirith posse-like. But, why do we have to do it on this one?”  
  
“Brego’s a fine horse.” Eowyn soothed the skittish horse with calm voice and hand.  
  
“He hates me!”  
  
“Don’t think you’re special, Merry. He hates everybody. Hiyah!” Eowyn dug in her heels, the gelding bucking, sending the riders up, then back down to the saddle, rattling teeth and jewels alike.  
  
“Fuck! That makes me feel so much better.”  
  
Stretching out his neck, Brego took to the wind, racing towards the ridge and the White City. At full gallop, Merry couldn’t shift, and his balls went numb. _Well, this could be a good thing. At least when they get shot off, I won’t feel it._

  
  
*****  
  
  
  
“Pukel man? Hey, buddy, you there? Over.”  
  
“Right here, over.”  
  
“You hear that? Over.”  
  
“Damn college kids. Over.”  
  
“Wish they shut the hell up. Scaring the fish. Over.”  
  
“They’re moving up river. Over.”  
  
“Good. This weather’s bad enough. Over.”  
  
“See you at Frank’s for breakfast? Over.”  
  
“Wouldn’t miss it. Over.”  
  
“See ya’ later then. Woses out.”  


  
*****

  
  
Aragorn throttled back and deftly slipped between the other boats – the twins hovered to port, Gimli to starboard. Before Aragorn could ask why they had stopped, Legolas pointed to the horizon.  
  
“Look.”  
  
Orange burned a hole in the darkness. Almost like the sunrise, but he knew better. “Minas Tirith.”  
  
“I fear we may be too late.”  
  
“Hell,” Halbarad spit off the side, disturbance ringing out…and out…and…, “never too late to kick orc ass!”  
  
“Then, gentlemen, I suggest we hurry.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
The twins sped away.  
  
“Do they have any idea where they’re going?”  
  
Aragorn wiped the spray from his face. “No, I don’t believe they do.”  
  
“Better go catch them before they lay siege to some unsuspecting country club.” Legolas chased after the other boat.  
  
Throttling up, Aragorn glanced back over his shoulder, then pushed his boat towards the burning sky. _Hold on. We’re coming._  
  
A mist hugging the water, flat and grey, reflecting no light, followed.

 

*****

  
  
_They’re dead. They’re all dead! I saw them. On the road dead._ Just like the orc he tripped over, the one that broke his fall, and the one who stared back at him with the same eyes that appeared in his every dream. _They’re dead!_ HE _is dead. The one, the one who -_ he wretched again, bringing up only bile. Pippin smelled of orc now, of burnt flesh; in his ears, the sounds of Denethor’s words coming true. The world _was_ coming to an end. Yet, it and he, refused to stop. He had to find Gandalf. _There’s still time, still time._  
  
Stumbling away from the Tomb, shamed and humiliated at his failure, Pippin had staggered until he could run, searching for Gandalf - one last ditch effort to save Faramir. He knew the old man was out on Minas Tirith’s front walls, fighting, holding the city’s defenses together while her leader prepared to kill his injured son. He had to find Gandalf quickly, then maybe, just maybe, there would be time to get to Denethor before he struck the match.  
  
“Gandalf! Gandalf! Have you seen Gandalf?”  
  
Nobody answered, no one paid attention. They streamed by, bloodied and in pieces, seeking a refuge that didn’t exist. Sauron’s army had broken through the front gates. The lower levels swarmed with orcs, destroying and torching as they moved up. The White City hung on by less than a thin thread.  
  
“Have you seen him? Gandalf! _Gandalf!_ ” He scratched his way over blasted chunks of wall, trying hard to stay out of blood spattered everywhere. “Gandalf!” Chairs blocked his path; a treadmill, filing cabinets, a grill. Papers, swept up into crazy spirals by the gusts of the incoming barrage, flamed brilliantly in the furnace blast heat - _Just like dancing twilight fireflies -_ around a tricycle, flat screen lying flat, wicker dog bed, Barbie dream house. Unfamiliar with the city before, he now wandered aimlessly in the huge pile of smoking rubble Minas Tirith had become. _Please, God, please, I’ve got to find him, find him in time, please help me find him!_ “Gandalf!”  
  
“Save your ammunition. Don’t shoot blindly. Pick your target, aim and then shoot.” A calm voice amid the chaos.  
  
“Gandalf!”  
  
“Peregrin?” A figure immerged from the smoke. “Peregrin, what are you doing here? This is no place for you.”  
  
Clothes grey again, layered with smoke and ash, blood, red and black alike, matted in his hair. His eyes sunk deep into a face covered with new wrinkles, and his demeanor was beyond gruff and bordering on manic. Pippin had never been so glad to see him.  
  
“Gandalf! You’ve got to come now! There’s no time! He could do it! Come on!”  
  
“Peregrin! Stop babbling!” He grabbed at the young man’s collar, yanking him back. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Denethor. He’s gone crazy!”  
  
“Yes, well, he’s beyond my help, I fear. He chose the wrong path.”  
  
“But, you’ve got to get to him before he does it!” Pippin trailing after the old man as he traveled along the balcony giving orders, sending encouragement, offering comfort. “He’s going to kill Faramir!”  
  
“Denethor may try, but he can do nothing while his son lies in the ICU. There! Right there! Get over there and plug that hole! Stand steady, men! Remember what you are fighting for!”  
  
“But, he’s not there anymore!”  
  
Gandalf stopped. The balcony trembled, someone shrieked in pain. Turning slowly, he fixed a hard stare on the young man. “Where _is_ Faramir?”  
  
Pippin searched for the best way to break his bad news, “Denethor took Faramir out of the - Gandalf!”  
  
The blade flashed, slicing through the orc’s throat. A wide arc and it plunged through the guts of another. Pulled free of its organic sheath, the metal dripped black, and poised high, at the ready.  
  
“Damn.” Way impressed.  
  
Gandalf lowered his arms, swiping the sword across the recently dispatched orc, cleaning the blade. “Where is Faramir, Peregrin?”  
  
And way worried that could be him when he told - “The Tomb of the Stewards. Denethor is building a huge pile of wood and plans to BBQ him.”  
  
Gandalf closed eyes, swearing under his breath. “Dear Eru. He is truly mad.”  
  
“See, that’s what I thought and I tried to stop him, all he did was fire me -” the part about him, gun and wussing out conveniently omitted, “so then I came to find you knowing that you could Hey! Wait for me!”  
  
Gandalf was muttering under his breath when Pippin caught up. “I do not have time for this. I am needed here. I fear this distraction serves a darker purpose.”  
  
The old man could do it obviously, walk through the detritus without looking down, where he was stepping, but not Pippin, his eyes glued to the stone, carefully picking his way through, careful never to step on a dead - “I knew the man was drunk, shit-faced to be honest. I never  - would … have … Gandalf?” He stood alone. Words of admonishment for the delay died on lips as he turned back to – “Oh, fuck.”  
  
Staff raised high, the old man stood staring down a Nazgul hovering scant feet away.  
  
“Your way is barred. Go back! You cannot enter. I will not allow it!”  
  
_Just like with the Balrog_. And just like the parking garage, Pipping was too overwhelmed to do the smart thing and run. He wanted to bask in the glow, the warmth, the sheer, unadulterated strength that emanated from Gandalf. Only, once again, it was not the Columbia Philosophy professor standing there, sword raised in defiance, playing chicken with a Black Hawk. As before, Gandalf ceased to be and, to Pippin’s mind, an angel took his place.  
  
The helicopter edged closer.  
  
“I say, NO!” Sword flamed brighter, so bright Pippin was reluctantly forced to squint. “You shall not enter Minas Tirith!”  
  
Whirring machinery brought the aircraft’s guns into place.  
  
_Can’t happen again! No! NO! I can’t be the cause again!_ Opened his mouth to shout warnings to Gandalf, or angel, or whatever to ‘Run! Run, you old fool!’ But, a sharp siren blared out over the field below, another answering, a clarion call drifting between the Light and the Dark. _What the hell?_  
  
And just like that, the Black Hawk rose and flew away, and no angel stood amid blasted stone. Only Gandalf and his anguished cry.  
  
“I cannot be in two places at once! I cannot save them all!”  
  
“Gandalf?”  
  
The sword returned to its sheath with a soft swoosh. He turned and Pippin maybe caught a resigned sigh? “But, I can save one who has sought your wisdom.”  
  
“Gandalf, who was - what did -” Pippin sneaking out of his hiding place, “What the hell just happened?”  
  
“That, Peregrin, was the Witch King. He is off to do his Master’s bidding and crush those just arrived.”  
  
“Who, Gandalf? Who, just arrived?” _This was good news! Help has finally come for The White City!_  
  
“Rohan. Come along, Pippin. We have the Steward family to attend to.” He walked back through the crumbling city.  
  
He followed numbly. _Witch King. Crush. Rohan. Oh my god! Merry!_  


   
  
  
*****

  
  
"...nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”  
  
“They’re coming! I always said they would, that they’re out there just waiting for the day, and now they came! They’re here!”  
  
“Who’s here, ma’am? Is there an emergency?”  
  
“Them. Hundreds, thousands coming across. It’s the apocalypse! They’ve come to get us!’  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What is the nature of your emergency?”  
  
“Not mine, but everybody’s! The whole world’s! They’re here, and they’re coming on horses!”  
  
  



	13. 13

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Thirteen

 

  
  
A fungus. The scene on the field below, that’s what it looked like to Theoden. Or better yet, the underside of a rotten log when kicked into the daylight. Slugs and beetles and worms all scrambling to return to the blackness. Only the log kicked to produce the seething mass he was about to lead his people into was Mt. Doom size. And at the head of it all stood a flaming Minas Tirith. _So. It all comes down to this, uh? The future decided at the feet of the White City._  
  
“So, how do you want to do this?”  
  
Theoden tore attention from the battle to greet his nephew. “Any thoughts?”  
  
“Well, IMHO,” Eomer taking off his ball cap to slick sweaty, blonde hair back, “I say we slaughter the sons of bitches.”  
  
“Not a very detailed strategy, Eomer.” Gamling appeared on Theoden’s left. Always an excellent horseman, he sat confident in the saddle, his mount calm and still. Yet, since Helm’s Deep, the quiet, nervous ranch hand had changed. No hesitation, no fear. A true rider of Rohan. As were all those who waited for the word to fight and defend their homes.  
  
Theoden surveyed their objective. _Thousands of orcs. Hundreds of us._ “Three prongs. Eomer, you’ve got the left flank. And, Gamling,” he turned to the other man. He looked closely, hoping to see not the unsure farm manager, but the leader they so desperately needed. _Yes. It’s there. The hunger, the determination. Courage won and learned under fire, Helm's Deep scorched and scarred._ Theoden smiled, and tossed him an air siren. Unable to use their radios for some unknown interference, this rather low rent way of communicating was devised. Of course, this way only worked to say ‘Go’. “You take the right. I’ll go right down the middle and punch a hole in the bastards.”  
  
“Got it,” Gambling returned the knowing smile, then galloped off.  
  
“God! This feels wonderful!” Theoden’s blood pumping, “So much better to face your enemy then to hide.”  
  
“Just wish it wasn’t so blasted dark,” Eomer squinting into the gloom, “Would be nice to see what the heck I’m shooting at.”  
  
“Evil, Nephew, and may we wipe it off the face of the earth.”  
  
“Amen.” Eomer turned Hausefel toward the left, to take up his appointed position. “Uncle, I – what the hell?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Trotting back a few paces, Eomer stared into the crowd of riders enmassed on the ridge. “I thought - I could have sworn -”  
  
“What?” Theoden craned his neck to see what had caught Eomer’s eye.  
  
“Thought I saw…” Head shake dismissed the notion. “No. Don’t listen to me, just seeing things, that’s all.” He turned back. “May this be the end of it.”  
  
Theoden reached out to clasp Eomer’s hand. “I’m proud of you, Eomer. And knowing that you and Eowyn will be there to care for Rohan –“  
  
Eomer tightened his grip. “Don’t talk like that, Uncle.”  
  
But, Theoden would not be put off. He wanted to say the words, things he never had the time to tell Theodred, words that needed to be said to his nephew before this chance was taken from him also. “You two watch the farm, Eomer. See that she grows and thrives, and remains strong.”  
  
Tears threatened to fall. He knew a goodbye when he heard it. “Rohan is my home. I could do no less.”  
  
“Good.” One more squeeze and grip released. “Good.”  
  
The sound of an air siren managed to break through the sounds of battle. Gamling’s signal. He and his riders were ready.  
  
“See you on the other side, Uncle.”  
  
Theoden watched his nephew ride away. Several moments later, his siren was heard, and Theoden gave his answer. Rohan was ready. _Well, here we go. To the glory of saving man from the Dark Lord, or to a death fought in a noble cause. Glory or death._ He kicked his mount into action, starting down the hill. _Glory or death. Glory or death._ Gathering speed, the beat of all the horse’s hooves seemed to call out _Glory or death, glory or death._ Increasing faster and faster, the battle rushing closer. _Glory or death. Glory or death._ Theoden bent into the wind, his gun cocked and ready. _Glory or death. Glory or death._ The fungus grew faces and eyes and teeth as it turned to meet this new threat. _Glory or death. Glory or death._ Theoden raised his weapon and aimed the first shot. _Glory or death. Glory or_ “DEATH!”  
  
“What, what are they saying?” From their position near the front where Eowyn had maneuvered them to be near her uncle, yet stay out of her brother’s line of sight, Merry had to shout above the din of hundreds of horses on the move. “What the hell are they saying?”  
  
They heard the sound, like a wave passing back over Rohan, Theoden’s cry became theirs.  
  
“Death! Death! DEATH!”  
  
“Not really the battle cry I was expecting,” shifting in the saddle, while sweat pooled under his arms. “Death, doesn’t instill confidence in the outcome.”  
  
Laying a hand over Merry’s where it strangled about her waist, Eowyn shouted back, “Whatever happens, stick close to me.”  
  
“Don’t worry. Like fucking superglue.”  
  
Brego moved with the rest of the herd carrying Eowyn and Merry along to the top of the ridge. Breaking promise and command, eschewing safety and peace – however brief – traveling miles in haste and discomfort, the choices made at last saw what they were fighting.  
  
“Oh, my god.”  
  
“Hail, Mary, full of grace.”  
  
Both cocked their guns. Down they went to face Sauron’s army.  
  
_Death indeed._

 

  
*****

 

  
With the engines silent, the powerful boats slipped up to the dock, Minas Tirith a scant two miles away, Aragorn surprised not to see it swarming with orcs. Only one stood guard and it’s attention was drawing circles in the dirt with its ratty boot. _Over confident. Good._  
  
Keeping low, they all disembarked. Halbarad took the task of dispatching the lone guard. Using stealth learned the hard way over years as a Free Lancer, he was up to the orc, catching it in a head lock before the order, ‘Be careful!’ could be given.  
  
“Keep your damn mouth shut!” The threat hissed into the startled orc’s lumpy ear, “How many?”  
  
“Intruders! Intru –"  
  
Halbarad let the orc fall from his arms, its head canting at an impossible angle. “Stupid as well as ugly.”  
  
Three pffffffts and the first orcs to answer the call fell to arrows expertly shot by Legolas and the twins. Immediately their bows were poised and ready to strike again. Gimili’s shotgun blasts illuminated briefly the mass of orcs streaming down to the water. Aragorn and his friend emptied one clip and slammed in another, all before any exchanged words.  
  
And the orcs kept coming.  
  
Shame. And anger. And resignation, despair and hatred and guilt and surrender, anguish, bitterness, abdication, loathing, discontentment longing apathy loneliness hope, Aragorn drowning in the mist as it pushed inland, enveloping and obscuring. Fiery tears came unbidden, a lump caught in his throat, the emotions so intense. Ahead, up on the hill, the mist coalesced into an arm, a bootless foot. Into shape came kepi and coonskin. Out grew musket and tomahawk. The mist became an army. _The Army of the Dead. My army._  
  
“Let’s get ‘em, boys!”  
  
With rebel yell, this army of Aragorn’s disappeared into the dark.

 

  
  
*****

 

  
Pippin’s shout scrambled after Gandalf. “Huge guys, at least two dozen of them, all armed to the teeth. And Denethor’s crazy nuts, cursing and swearing,” The old man paused at the stone doors. “And the door’s locked, I tried.” Pippin arrived out of breath. “Banged until my hands hurt.” Gandalf gave the doors an experimental push. Just like he said, they did not open. “I’m telling you, they’re locked! And Denethor’s not going to open them for –” Staff pressed to the stone and doors flew open. “Gee, why didn’t I try that.”  
  
“Denethor!” Gandalf’s voice echoed off the high stone walls. In the entrance he stood, and, to Pippin’s eyes, he grew taller and more menacing then he had ever witnessed before.  “Have you lost _all_ reason?”  
  
“Do not show off your parlor tricks to me, Mithrandir. I am not impressed.”

Pippin prudently stuck to the sidelines, let the older generation battle it out.  
  
The pyre was now completed, and the only thing needed for it to fulfill its purpose was the flame that hissed and twisted on the end of the torch in Denethor’s hand.  
  
“You have given one son to the cause. Do you wish to sacrifice another?” Gandalf approached slowly, but never lost the hard edge to his voice. “Can’t you see what you are doing is madness?”  
  
“I have seen far more then you, Mithrandir,” Denethor spat out the name. “I have looked into the Eye and I know the truth. It is over.”  
  
Gandalf’s razor thin patience evaporated. “Hope still remains, Denethor. You have always failed to see beyond your own needs and desires. You cannot do this!”  
  
Denethor laughed; a full belly laugh that should have started the others to join him if it had held any humor. But, the man’s laugh was dry and desiccated, no mirth, no life. “Hope? Oh, Mithrandir, for all your supposed wisdom, you cannot even face your defeat. He won’t stop, not until all of Arda is in flames. Better to choose your death, than to beg for it by the hand of another.”  
  
“But, Faramir –"  
  
“Is MY son! My beautiful son,” a grieving father looked to child lain out by his feet, “so like his mother, I couldn’t bear to see – my dearest wife, my Findulias, happy, we were – family,” tears spilled for the past,” and then I lost you – Boromir, and now -” He spun to stare down the old man. “You may have lured him away while he lived, Mithandir, but in death, Faramir is mine!” He lowered his hand, and the fire leapt gleefully to the soaked wood. “Faramir is _mine_!”  
  
“NO!” Sprinting by the two quarreling men, Pippin headed straight for the fire.  
  
_Get him out!_ “Shit! Shit!” _Get him out, got to get him out! How? How’re gonna’ do that? He’s surrounded by fire, or haven’t you noticed that? Yes, I saw that, and it’s fucking hot!_ “Shit!” _Not that way. Other side! Run, running to the other side._ “Damn!” _Even worse over here. No way in. Got to get to him, now!_ “Stay right there, Faramir, Mr. Steward, Sir, I’m coming to get you. That’s right, coming to get you.” _Right through the fire. The fire that burns, fire like Nana Banks always said ‘The Devil’s done picked his team, fire and fools his starting lineup.’ Fire that kills, and it’s gonna’ kill him of you don’t stop fucking around._

“Help!” _Anyone? Anyone help?_ “Gandalf!” _Too busy arguing. The other guys? They put Faramir here in the first place. Nope, it’s you, Pip only you._ “But, how? How, how, how the hell…?”

_Up and over, that’s the only way. Up and –_

“Like I can jump fire.” _Only way, it’s the only way. But, how?_ “Running start! That’s it!” _Running start and I’ll jump and sail right over the flames of death. Back, back, back._ “Back far enough?” _One, no two more steps._ “And here we go.” _Right now. I’m going now. Here I go! One, two, threeeee_ –

“Ooooooh, shiiiiiiiit!”

_That wasn’t so bad. I made it with everything thing in one piece, I think._ “What’s the smell? Shit! Out! Out! Go out!” _Never liked this fucking blazer anyway. OK. I’m here, you’re here. Inside this ring of fire, fire that’s getting hotter and higher and closer as I sit here and talk to -_ “OK, Faramir, time to get out of here. Up and over, just like I got in here. Up and over. Faramir? Faramir, can you hear me? Wake up, please! Please, wake up! You’ve got to wake up, ‘cause this would be a whole hell of a lot easier if you just jumped over the fire all by your – not waking up. Shit.” _OK, what now? Grab him! Yeah, grab him and –_ “Pull! Pull! Damnit, pull! Fuck.” _Such a fucking weakling. Fire’s so close, so close. The ring of fire, just like when I looked into - just like –_

“Out now! Got to get out now!” _Only one way. One way out of this and that’s straight through._ “Shit! Damn! Fuck!” _One hand under his shoulders, one hand under his –_ “Sorry, Sir, not getting personal or anything here.” _What the hell am I saying? Just put your hand on the man’s ass!_ “OK, that’s good, that’s good, I got you, got you. And rock one, and rock two and rock three –Shit! Shit SHIT! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”  
  
“NO!”  
  
They hit the stone floor – hard – knocking the breath from lungs. He paid no heed to smoldering clothes or burning palms, only the screaming and the torch aimed right at his head.  
  
“You shall not take my son!”  
  
Fire filled Pippin’s vision. _Fools and the Devil. Which one am I, Nana?_  
  
“FARAMIR!”

A white flash streak and torch flew out of view, Gandalf standing only inches away, his staff hitting the mark square, Denethor landing right where Pippin had just escaped from.  
  
“MY SON!” A shriek, the fire finding his robes to its liking. A giant whoosh and the CEO was one with the flame. " BOROMIR!” That son's name the last on his lips.  
  
The blistering heat on his face, the stench of burning flesh and hair made eyes sting, but he could not look away. “Gandalf, I – why – he - oh, my god!”  
  
“Peregrin,” Gandalf knelt down to pat out the still smoking black blazer, “I must return to the fight. You there!” He barked over his shoulder. “Do something of value and take the patient back to the hospital!”  
  
The men that would have sentenced Faramir to death, the ones only following orders, the ones who did nothing to save their leader, silently complied. They lifted the injured man gently and bore him out of the Tomb.  
  
“Peregrin, you must go with him.” He helped the young man to stand. “See that no harm comes to the CEO.”  
  
That brought Pippin up short. He stammered, “But, he – he – he - sweet Jesus! He -” pointing to the blazing lump.  
  
“Faramir is Chief Executive Officer now, and the White City will need his guidance.” A gentle push in the right direction. “Make sure you have those burns on your hands tended to. Wouldn’t want to get an infection.”  
  
A numb nod. “Yes, Sir.”  
  
A smile of affection and pride. “Peregrin. That was very brave.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir.” He stumbled after the unexpected compliment.  
  
Alone in the Tomb, Gandalf sagged against the wall, the stress of the day bringing weary bones to ache. _Why must everything end in flames?_ The consumed wood shifted away, allowing the fire to find new fuel. Pop! Hissssssss! Something bounced down out of the conflagration of burning man, rolling across the floor, finally coming to rest at Gandalf’s feet. The Palantir, unscathed and opaque.  
  
_Oh, Denethor! How many lives will be claimed this night because you did not have the wisdom to trust to hope?_  
  
He bent to retrieve the black orb, carefully wrapping it in his coat, always mindful not to touch its benign surface. Pop! Pop! Hissssssss! Gandalf looked back into the fire.  
  
_Everything must end in flames, because the Ring was birthed there. Oh, Frodo! Where are you? Are you safe, my boy?_  
  
He left the Tomb and shut the doors on the still burning pyre.  
  
“Thus passes Denethor Steward, son of Ecthelion.”

 

  
  
*****

 

  
“…This is Captain Dave, your WTLK Eye in the Sky. Don’t know if I’ll be able to see much ‘cause of the storm, but I’m trying to get as close as I can. Taking us down a little closer. There’s lots of movement, but I can’t really see – Shit! Go! Go! Up! Get us out of here now! We’re being shot at, for Christ’s sake! Out of here now, now! Up! Don’t care which way just get us – What the hell was that! Oh, fuck! Tanks! They’ve got bloody tanks! Go! Go! Get us out of – “

 

  
****

 

  
“A little closer! Closer, Merry, closer!”  
  
“I can’t believe I’m doing this!”  
  
The clanking of the treads usurped the cacophony of shrieks and blasts and screams of the field. But, Merry hadn’t paid much attention to all that anyway. Not since the tanks showed up. Bullets or 155 mm shells, which one would you notice? Looking down, he watched Brego’s galloping hooves flatten the chunks of earth gouged by the metal teeth of the tank’s tread, so close to the thing, he could count the rivets. _I've gone completely insane!_  
  
“Need to get to the front! The main canon!”  
  
Still holding onto the illusion that man was leading horse, Merry flicked the reins once, and Brego slipped around in front of the lumbering vehicle. “Now what?”  
  
Her plan was simple: bring down the thing that was decimating Rohan’s riders. No way to shoot the driver, he was protected by sheets of steel. Next best thing, destroy the weapon itself. And since the orcs were not so obliging as to stand still while Eowyn sabotaged their gun, she devised the plan to ride up and plug the damn thing. Of course, Merry had had no clue what Eowyn was all about when she had halted, jumped down, back up and switching positions, handing Brego’s reins to him. But, he caught on real quick when they began to inch closer to the belching behemoth.  
  
“Don’t suppose this would be the right time to tell you I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing here!” Merry’s previous riding experience consisted of the Merry-Go-Round at the state fair, Anna Marie DeLuca, and number 28 Red.  
  
“Get down!” Eowyn yanked hard on Merry’s jacket, straight back and bringing his body over hers.  
  
_Oh, now I’m trick riding!_  
  
The orc attempting to cut their little scheme off at the knees dispatched by another’s bullet, another rider of Rohan, Eowyn shoved Merry upright. “OK, now sit back! And bring me right up to the front!”  
  
Brego once again _listened_ to Merry’s instructions and swerved into position. The gelding’s tail trailed out, whipping the metal of their prey. Merry looked back. Heartbeats separated them. “Holy shit!”  
  
It finally dawned on those inside the tank that their impenetrable fortress was under attack. The hatch slammed open, and a black set of eyes peered out, catching Merry’s, then sneered.  
  
“Now, Eowyn, for Christ’s sake, do it NOW!”  
  
“Can’t…quite…reach…” Standing in the stirrups, Eowyn leaned out, fingers just brushing the muzzle, body jerking under Brego’s valiant stride. “Just…a bit…more…”  
  
A shot whizzed by head. “Fuck!” A rifle from the hatch trained right at his head. “NOW, EOWYN, NOW!”  
  
“Almost…almost…” her arms at the limit.  
  
Another bullet missed him by a mere whisp of a thought. “EOWYN!”  
  
“Almost…THERE!” She shoved the gun home.  
  
Why it had to be _his_ gun – the one swiped from the main house’s cabinet last night, the one of small caliber and smaller ammunition supply, the one that had yet to be fired in either offense or defense for hands had been too bush clutching for dear life -  they placed in the canon’s mouth, Merry still had not puzzled out. But, now that it was done, now that they had survived their dead hero making exploit, all he could think about was getting the hell out of there and sitting down to a huge mug of beer and quietly falling apart.  
  
“Go, Merry, GO!”  
  
Brego darted out of the way, and both shouted their elation until they were pushed violently forward from the blast of the now useless canon, tumbling over and over, spinning out into darkness.

 

  
  
*******

 

  
“Legolas!”  
  
The well-aimed arrow went right through the orc’s throat.  
  
Following in the wake of the Army of the Dead, Aragorn and his men played clean up, taking down those that had managed to live through the confrontation with whose that could not die. Bullets long spent, he sliced his way toward Minas Tirith, his companions finding more than enough to keep them occupied. He was weary, arms trembled with each blow, each cut and hack. Halbarad’s hair was singed and part of his jacket blackened. The twins were reduced to retrieving arrows from their fallen victims to turn around and cut another down.  
  
Over and through and around, the mist coiled, taking shape, becoming a Continental solider, or an Iroqouis warrior or Union cavalry officer. Confusion reigned out across the field; something that would not die, no matter how many bullets shot, or cuts from swords and knives. The mist would only evaporate untouched.  
  
Slowly and hard fought, they made their way to the gates of the White City. In tatters, the monstrous things hung on wrenched hinges, the city beyond orc territory. A huge blast out in the darkness, out where Aragorn knew Rohan fought, stopped him short of entering. The mist plowed through the gates, sending those orcs into a panicked frenzy. Desperately wanting to follow his Army through what remained of the city’s gates, Aragorn gathered his few men and turned instead to the fiercest fighting. That’s where he and his sword were needed now.

 

  
*****

 

  
Merry could have sworn he heard something. That sound. Ya’ know? Like at a game, coming from the rowdy section of the stands. He opened his eyes to darkness, only to find he was on the ground and bleeding. _Damndest football game I’ve ever been to._  
  
Then a voice broke through. A voice shouting, “To me! Rally to me!”  
  
_Hey! I know that voice. That’s…_ He sat straight up. “FUCK!” Partially pinned under Brego’s rapidly cooling body, Merry could not move his leg. “SHIT!” Immobile he did not want to be. He yanked on his trapped leg savagedly, knowing he would come face to ugly face with an orc any second. Helicopter rotors barreled overhead, then the rapid fire of its gun. Only the sharp anguished cry of a woman pierced his curtain of fear.  
  
“NO!”  
  
He didn’t care if he tore his leg from the socket, he had to get to her. He lashed out at Brego’s corpse, gagging to treat the proud animal so brutally. Kicking and yanking and screaming his pain, Merry finally managed to break free. In the darkness, he had to rely on sound to guide him, the sound of Eowyn’s determined voice.  
  
“You will not touch him! I won’t let you!”  
  
_Him? Him who?_ He dragged damaged body over earth turned mud by the blood spilt.  
  
“I said NO!”  
  
Snaking around the hulk of what was left of a Jeep, Merry found Eowyn, and watched in awe as she pulled off two unbelievable shots – one to the helicopter’s roters, the other the gun’s mechanisms. It was dead in the water, so to speak, impotent on land, too. She stood arms outstretched, the gun aimed in her cupped hands, ready to give another demonstration of her shooting prowess should the occupant of the copter still have any doubts.  
  
Out of the useless aircraft rose the largest man, or creature, or demon he had ever seen. _Sorry, Treebeard, you’ve been beat._ “Oh my fucking god!”  
  
“You stay away from him!”  
  
Him, Merry saw – _oh, fuck, no! -_ was Theoden lying broken, pinned under his dying horse.  
  
“And I suppose it is you who will stop me?” The voiced rumbled like massive boulders rubbing together, the sound of plate tectonics.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The second rumble Merry thought was a laugh. “And that little feat will be accomplished how exactly?”  
  
While her voice wavered, her gun arm never did. “I’ll kill you.”  
  
This time he was sure that the thing laughed. “Don’t you know who I am? I am the Witch King of Angmar, the greatest of the Nazgul!”  
  
_Oh, shit! The leader of the Black Dudes!_  
  
“Do not hinder me!”  
  
It advanced on Eowyn, growing in size as it moved, and she could do nothing, but back up. “Don’t come any closer!”  
  
“What? Are you going to shoot me? Shoot _me_! Do it. Please be my guest, shoot me, you insignificant. No man can kill me!”  
  
Her finger twitched on the trigger, but the shot was never fired. Swept aside by the Nazgul’s arm, Eowyn flew back and the gun went the other way.  
  
“It matters not to me. I shall kill you first before I tear the life out of that other.”  
  
Gun sacrificed to the tank, Merry would have settled for a handful of pebbles to throw at the bastard. _If wishes were horses, beggars would…wear cups, but I sure as hell wish I still had Galdriel’s gift. Wait a minute!_ Flopping over to back, hands shoved into pockets. Too puny to be threatening, Saruman’s orcs had left it behind. Scratching forward, Merry headed straight for the Nazgul’s leg. _Do black dudes even have legs?_  
  
Eowyn spasmed, dangling helpless, as her life was wrung out by the black hand wrapped around her throat. The plates shifted, a chuckle to see her claw at its tight fisted grip. “So weak, so fragile. Just a little squeeze,” her eyes buldged, “and your life is snuffed out. So mortal.”  
  
_I may be a man,_ Merry squirming his way closer, _and I can't kill you. But, I sure as hell can make you -_  
  
The Nazgul shrieked, dropping Eowyn when Merry’s knife, a Eagle Scout gift from his parents, plunged deep into putrid flesh.

_Got you, motherfuck -_  
  
Ice seeped into him, freezing his blood, burning skin. Up his arm, crawling evil, heading for his heart, the cry of pain escaping without sound. _I’m a dead man, dead, dead and dead again._  
  
“I am no man, you fucker!”  
  
Gratified to hear five shots ring out, and the pitiful squeal of evil folding in on itself - _I saved them! Me, Meriadoc, son and complete disappointment to Saradoc, have just saved Eowyn’s life, and probably the old man’s, too._  
  
He heard her again, weeping soft, whimpering, pleading. But, he knew his limitations, he could go no further. He succumbed to the black, with but one thought and it brought him a giggle.

_Murder...wonder what that badge looks like..._

 

  
*****

 

  
“…as you can see on this piece of footage recovered from the crash of a local traffic helicopter, weapons fire is visible. And now we have what would appear to be a large group of Civil War re-enactors coming on the scene. There in the corner you can plainly see several Confederate clad men, armed with what looks to be vintage Springfields, followed by several dressed as Native Americans and men in what I think are, my high school history teacher would be ashamed, Revolutionary blue and buff uniforms. While the investigation will continue, it looks like a group of history buffs just let matters get out of hand. The nature of the freak storm that blanketed this area of Virginia is still under investigation. Scientists from NOAA are en route to the site. For full coverage of The Appalachian Mystery, stayed tuned to CNN or check us the web at CNN dotcom. Coming up - what’s next for J Lo?”


	14. 14

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Fourteen

 

 

  
_Why does everything have to end in fire?_  
  
The sky outside the hospital window was a sooty grey, and if Pippin didn’t know better he would have sworn Mordor’s cloud still hung about the White City. It was gone, though, withered away in the pre-dawn light.  
  
Minas Tirith had not fallen. After witnessing that miracle, Pippin had watched the grim chore of accounting for all her dead defenders handled with solemn determination by those bandaged and barely able to stand themselves. Beneath his window, body after body after body was removed from the rubble and taken, he knew not where, to be laid to rest in peace and honor.  
  
_But what of those who had fought at her feet? Out on the battlefield? Not much left for the families to memorialize._  
  
The enemy had run from the field, slinking back east, the flames leaping out from their destruction wrought – Sauron’s last slap in the face of those who had bested him. Pelennor Fields now smoldered, clouds of ashy smoke wafting upward, joining the morning mist, casting the battlefield into someone’s warped dream world. The fire had consumed all, good and bad. No one had escaped the burning of Pelennor Fields.  
  
_Except one._  
  
After delivering Faramir back to the hospital, Pippin had retreated to a small corner, tucked between chair rows in the waiting room. How his hands came to be wrapped in gauze, he didn’t remember, but picking at the edge of the tape gave him something to concentrate on instead of the death around him, the death that clung to his hair and clothes, the death he replayed over and over again in his mind. One edge completely frayed, unraveling in his hands, he was working the other end when a familiar voice bellowed out across the swirling melee. Doctors and nurses, frazzled and at the end of their endurance, answered the call, lifting the limp body of Eowyn Riddermark from her brother’s arms. Theoden arrived seconds later, swarmed by EMT’s, one even sat across his body, counting compressions, arms shaking from the strain of keeping the man’s heart pumping. The stretcher’s sheet a bright crimson, Eomer’s face twisted with rage and worry. But, selfish and perverse, Pippin thought the sight was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. Theoden meant Rohan, and Rohan meant Merry.  
  
_Had to find him, just had to._  
  
Frantic searching left him sick with fear. Merry was not amongst the wounded Rohan rescued from the field, not among the broken given into the hospital’s care. There had to be more, there had to be more survivors.

Down, down he went, swimming against the red and black tide, down through levels of destruction, to stand and watch at the front gates, the flood of casualties, the walking wounded, the unbelievably unscathed lucky trickle down into nothing, and still no sign of Merry. He was here, Pippin knew he was. Merry had promised he would come. So, if he was not inside the city, outside became the obvious next step. Aragorn conferring with some guy dressed in confederate grey, Legolas and Gimli arguing, Gandalf directing rescue teams – all too busy to notice one young man slip out and disappear into the growing fire.  
  
_It was my turn to do the hero stuff, Merry. My turn to come to your rescue._  
  
Devouring flames illuminated the path as he ran just out of their reach. He left no dead body unturned or untouched. Orc and Rohan, enemy and friend, flipped and turned by feet and hands. Horses proved a problem, too big to push over, so he just fell to knees and felt around the carcass. He scrambled through Jeeps and over tanks able only to mouth his love’s name now, voice and breath stolen by the approaching fire. A swatch of blood, left there by reopened wounds, marked the side of a downed helicopter. Eyes watered continually, streams of tears to accompany sobs. His Merry was lost. The fire’s ring nearly complete, he slipped, hands and knees sinking into the mud, falling then face first, his mouth immediately filling with muck. Heat baked the back of his head and he wondered if this was how it was for Denethor as his flesh seared from his bones. Pippin wondered if the man had smelled his own skin burning, hallucinated as he died – of air and light and sunbeams through puffy clouds - like Pippin did right now – lying back on loamy bed, scrawny, scrubby pine tree legs standing tall, squirrels chittering, birds chattering, the Smoky Mountains sighing, a breeze tossling hair and leaf, flutter teasing at a greenish-grayish swatch of cloak over by that…  
  
_I found you. I saved you._  
  
Hands bandaged for a second time, Pippin had hovered, staunchly refusing to budge from Merry’s side as the doctors tended to his wounds. Even pushy nurses could not intimidate him into leaving; they would just have to work around him, as if one of Merry’s limbs. Literally walking through fire to bring his love to safety, Pippin would not abandon him now.  
  
_You’re safe, and I’m right by your side._  
  
Merry had received the best treatment Minas Tirith had to offer. Listening intently to diagnosis of concussion, fractures and ruptured spleen, Pippin learned of all the complications and implications of sustained injuries. Grave, but stable, Merry’s surgery a success, all patched up, the healing could begin. Nothing in medical experience, however, could account for the steadily decreasing rhythm of the monitors spreading a spider web of wires and miles of IV tubes across the still body. Merry’s right hand was cold to the touch, as cold as a stone plucked from the bottom of a mountain stream, ashen gray, and just as lifeless, and it was spreading. Rescued from the field, the fire, here in one of the most modern medical facilities, in the care of the finest medical staff, Merry was slipping away even as Pippin watched.  
  
_Don’t you do this! Merry, don’t you fucking die on me now!_  
  
A commotion drew attention from the black smear in front of Minas Tirith to the hall just outside this prison of an ICU room. Gandalf and Aragorn were receiving an earful from Ioreth, head nurse Nazi, as she followed them, hands flying, mouth flapping. Whatever it was, she certainly did not approve, and Pippin’s commiserating gaze caught Gandalf’s eye as they passed. The old man sent back a nod of encouragement, and, if Pippin had any capacity lingering to catch and hold, just a bit of hope.  
  
_Doesn’t matter anymore. Don’t care anymore._  
  
Tiles on the wall counted, holes in those tiles counted, Pippin had memorized each and every inch of this 5 x 7 easy on the eyes beige room. He knew the blinds by heart, could draw the fake wood grain of the door with his eyes shut. Everything examined in great detail, anything to keep his mind occupied and his eyes away from the bed. But, he was tired now, too tired to tap dance. He had played the avoidance game to its logical conclusion and was ready to cash in his chips. From the now empty hall his eyes traveled across the shiny linoleum, up the wall then over to the end of his world.  
  
_Please, you just can’t, you can’t!_  
  
The bed protested the extra weight, and a bit a shuffling was required so he wouldn’t hang on the wires, but he managed to snuggle in close. Not trusting those machines, he rested his head lightly, so he could listen to the heartbeat himself. It fluttered weakly against cheek, his head rising and falling shallow. This close, Pippin could sense it all seeping away, less and less there with each labored breath. And soon there would be nothing.  
  
_A life without Merry?_  
  
Tears fell hot as Pippin began the soul deadening task of ordering his life around that inevitability.  
  
  
  
*****

  
“I’m nuts. Clinically, certifiably nuts.”  
  
Picking out two more, Ioreth placed the leaves in her make shift mortar, and pressed with the back of the spoon, crushing them with the others.  
  
“Nursing school, graduate school, thirty years on the floor, all to become an aromatherapist.”  
  
She had been around for too long not to believe in the healing powers of some alternative medicines. Even experienced some of the miracles herself; they did still happen when modern medical advancements fell short. (Chiropractors were still charlatans, though). It wasn’t the idea of turning to herbal remedies that made her see red. It was the person who had given the order.  
  
“Waltzed right in and took over.”  
  
That Aragorn _was_ handsome - a scruffy, three days past needing a bath and a shave kind of handsome - but that only meant he could fill out a pair of leather pants nicely. It did not instantly bestow upon him a medical degree. Nor the leadership of Gondor.  
  
“Should wait for the CEO. Or at least give his son time to heal.”  
  
But, therein lay the problem. Denethor was nowhere to be found, and Faramir was on the critical list. Initial wounds cleaned and dressed – two arrows straight through muscle, the third knicked lung’s lower lobe, minor surgery only - the tetanus shot and IV pushed antibiotics should have brought the young man around. Faramir _should_ be sitting up in bed, conscious and very much alive. Only he wasn’t any of those things. Unresponsive and failing, just like the pretty blonde lady and the tattooed boy, Denethor’s son’s grey hued skin chilled all who touched it. Ioreth knew the signs; Faramir’s body was shutting down, all the medical intervention be damned. And that’s when scruffy man had stepped in.  
  
“Probably doesn’t even know how to put on a Band-Aid properly.” The grumble dumped the remaining contents of the last bag into her bowl. _Then why are you doing this? Listening, agreeing, following this looney tunes plan? Faramir, that’s why. And the others, if there’s a chance to – and Mithrandir -_  
  
Now, _him_ she trusted, and only at the old man’s insistence did she agree to send badly needed hands to scurry about the ruined city looking into every health food store and head shop for the weed.  
  
“This dried out, useless,” she brought the Corning Ware dish up close for inspection, “very pungent weed.”  
  
Athelas was foreign. King’s foil she had heard of. Maybe. Cured boils or… constipation, or something like that, according to Mithrandir and old wife’s tales. In order for its ‘miraculous’ purpose to work, it must be crushed – which she decided to do personally, not wanting this foolishness to get more out of control – then placed into water, steeped like non-FDA regulated tea. Three pots, she hoped, were boiling in the staff lounge. The scent would bring Faramir and the others back from the darkness. Or so said leather pants man.  
  
“When the black breath blows, and death’s shadow grows, and all lights pass,” she sang softly, a simple melody with a rich alto voice, making sure the leaves broke into the finest of pieces possible, “something, something, life to the dying, in the King’s hand something else.”*  
  
Memory was a funny thing. Why that old song of her great-grandmother’s would come to mind at such a stressful time, Ioreth could not fathom. Maybe it was the king in the king’s foil she worked with. Word association and all that. She chuckled at her mind’s eclectic pathways.  
  
“Task near completion?”  
  
There wasn’t much in her bowl. Only three small bags of the weed were recovered. This was all they had to work with. _It had to be enough._ Or else the CEO’s son, along with those other two, would be dead before the end of second shift.  
  
“Yeah, done as I’ll ever be,” a cautious answer for the blond man in the doorway.  
  
“Good. I’ll inform Aragorn.”  
  
“I’ll go get the water.” _And then the two go together, and we wait for nice ass man to work his magic._  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
  
_Lukewarm coffee is better than none._  
  
The bitter caffeine sloshed around his empty stomach mixing liberally with the fatigue, anxiety and fear that had taken up permanent residence in his gut. He needed a shower, a good meal, a nap and another job.  
  
_Wait. I have that one._  
  
Was there a word that meant beyond exhausted? Aragorn didn’t know it, but he sure as hell felt like it now.  
  
_Last time I slept? Rohan. Last time I ate? The caverns. The last time I had confidence? Walking into the Prancing Pony._  
  
The subdued moment a surreal respite. Only the not so soothing snores of Halbarad, stretched out on his back in the middle of the waiting room floor, cut into this quiet time. Elladan and Elohir had snatched up scrubs and gone in search of a shower. Gandalf was coordinating rescue and clean-up teams. Legolas sought food for everyone with Gimli tagging along to make certain what came back was more than nuts and berries. By himself for the first time in weeks, Aragorn didn’t quite know how to deal with all this solitude. Sleep should be his first priority; take advantage of this brief downtime to replenish and restore. Or maybe follow the twins example in washing off the grime of the last battle. Food was another option, not waiting patiently for Legolas by raiding the snack machine, so hungry even Funyuns sounded appealing. All intelligent, responsible things to do. Aragorn aimlessly paced up and down the corridor instead.  
  
Glancing into the rooms as he walked, he allowed a touch of pride to creep into his step. Merry was swatting Pippin’s hand away from his food laden dinner tray. Eowyn curling into her brother’s arms to grieve their loss. Faramir, lost in thought, standing at the window alone.  
  
_You got lucky, that’s all._  
  
Had never paid attention to Elrond when he had schooled on such things. Young and horny, Aragorn’s mind had been on Elrond’s daughter, not on his words. Why listen to some babble about an ancient ability he possessed through an accident of birth, when Arwen’s eyes, mouth and lips were there to contemplate.  
  
_And her neck and arms and shoulders and -_ Aragorn stopped and adjusted. _Damn leather pants._  
  
He would not have even tried had Gandalf not made the suggestion. Actually, Gandalf had pushed, shoved and bullied him into the attempt. Always keeping one eye on Halbarad’s smirk – Ioreth’s disdain - and the other on his quickly jotted down notes dredged up from his murky memory, Aragorn had taken the small amount of prepared athelas and called upon every bit of skill he could remember to bring the injured back from the darkness.  
  
Faramir had answered, strong and clear, waking up to recognize and acknowledge Aragorn immediately. Merry practically jumped into his arms, with Pippin right beside to catch him. Only Eowyn had taxed his strength and shaky competence. The loss of yet another parental figure was almost too much for her. And then when she finally did take his hand to follow, she returned with a hope in her eyes, his doing, his mistake. Shamefaced, Aragorn crushed it, gently reminding her that he belonged to another.  
  
_Remember, hotshot, you saved three. Three out of how many?_  
  
Figures on a spreadsheet did not paint an accurate picture. Almost a complete generation of young men and women would not see another birthday. And soon Arda would be asked to offer up her children again.  
  
_All on my say so. All I have to do is give the word, and people will die._  
  
The far end of the corridor reached, Aragorn did not finish the circuit by turning and heading back the other way. He stopped allowing his nervousness to catch him. It inched up, prickling his skin, crawling underneath, digging in, skittering along until all he wanted to do was scratch his flesh raw to expunge tomorrow.  
  
_Have to take the fight to Sauron’s front yard. Hit him hard, now!_  
  
However, Aragorn’s hammer consisted not of nameless orcs, created to be lead sponges, cannon fodder, but of people. Human beings who rented video games, ate at McDonald’s, ignored the speed limit, slept on the left side of the bed, worked for better things, loved their children and, at his word, would die at the Black Gates.  
  
_Done it before, watched people die on my word._  
  
Only a handful of men, that’s all; free lancers, Rangers who undertook the job, of boundary enforcement and reconnaissance, clean-up operations and surveillance, with a full understanding of the risks, and his last command – gone now, oaths fulfilled, released and free at last, disintegrated to dust - that ‘army’ did not count either. Being dead going into a battle sort of negates the risk factor.  
  
Obligation – a heavy, humid hand squeezing the back of his neck – did nothing to dampen the fire on his skin. Too much depended on him, too many.  
  
_This is why I stayed away._  
  
Right at this moment the idea of taking the stairs down and out of the building, out of Minas Tirith, Gondor, Arda and the whole mess was a sweet and cool breeze taunting and teasing him into action. Escape had his name written all over it.  
  
_But, to where?_  
  
Running away had only brought him here – to Minas Tirith, to leadership, to the final battle, to his destiny. _That hero king, remember?_ And if the Ringbearer failed, distance would not matter. Sauron’s evil would crawl out of Mordor, infesting even those obscure places, ignored and forgotten by the modern world. No place to hide, nowhere to breathe free. The corruption would be complete, final.  
  
_How many people will die then?_

Big cities, small towns – Rivendell, where life itself, against common sense and father’s demand, sat waiting for his return.

_I leave, and I take hope with me. It must end now._  
  
Weary and battle scared, the new leaders of Gondor and Rohan, along with the usual others, had gathered in the hospital lobby to hash out what to do next. In lieu of straight backed couches and matching chairs, they sat, leaned against, collapsed upon chunks of blasted wall, in lieu of solid intelligence suppositions lead the way. Pelennor Fields was over, and everyone there recognized the battle for what it really was: a prelude. Evil had not been eradicated, it had merely retreated. Finality would come only when the Ring was destroyed. How to facilitate that, how to ensure that, what could they do to help?  
  
_It was all your idea, remember?_  
  
A simple plan: go to Mordor and draw Sauron out, thus giving Frodo a clear path to reach Mt. Doom. Or as Mr. Obvious put it - create a diversion. A hook was needed, though, something that would guarantee that Sauron took the bait, open The Black Gates, and disgorge his minions _._  On that one Legolas had remained mute; he was good at the what and why, clueless on the how. The group of men had debated - _Hell, more like screamed and shouted_ – schemes and suggestions at each other until Aragorn silenced them all with his.  
  
_No more stalling, Estel. Time to get some balls and just do it._  
  
Back in the waiting room, pack slipped easily from his shoulder. He would have preferred a more private location, one without a log sawing Halbarad, or anticipation of the intrusion of twins and supper, but tomorrow was only a few hours away and every second precious.  
  
Surprised at how light the thing was, he slowly unwrapped the protective cloth.  
  
_Knock, knock, Sauron! Ready for a big –_  
  
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”  
  
The Palantir nearly rolled out of Aragorn’s startled hands.  
  
Dressed in scrubs and freshly washed, curls still wet, Pippin stepped into the waiting room. “Been there, done that, did not want the fucking t-shirt.”  
  
Laughter released some of his tension. “How’s Merry?”  
  
“Full as a tick,” Pippin’s smile bright. “And sleeping like the dead.” His countenance sobered. “Bad choice of words.”

“Good, that’s good.” Something on his mind, that was obvious the way damp, fresh from the shower towel twisted in his hands, how a thought would open mouth to speak and doubt close it immediately. Another problem, one more crises that called for could not be spared attention? _Hero King needs a staff like yesterday._ “Yes, Pippin, what is it?”

“Aragorn, I -” tears began before words, “what you did,” gratitude big, falling messy, “what did you do? Homemade bong and chanting crazy shit. But, it worked!” Unbridled joy sparkling green, “he’s not – Merry is -” Inadequate recompense for gift bestowed, but all he had to offer. “Thank you.”

All accepted with a humble nod.

“Same goes for Faramir. What he’s dealing with -” a cloud descended with frown. “And Eowyn.”

“Too many have died.”

Frown deepened. “Yes.”  
  
“Just like Merry, you should be sleeping, too.” Gandalf had spoken of Pippin’s deeds today, praising the young man in a way that he would never do if that young man were actually listening.  
  
“That’s my next stop,” swiped away, frown and tears, nose a little runny, towel again, “just wanted to know what time I should make my wake up call for.”  
  
And Aragorn knew what was coming. “Pippin, I don’t think –"  
  
“Going with ya’ll tomorrow.”  
  
“Your hands, your injuries.”  
  
“Aren’t any worse than everybody else’s. You’re all beat-up and dirty. Well, except for Legolas. But, I’m sure as hell not gonna’ let this,” he held up second degree burned palms now covered with NuSkin, “keep me from going.”  
  
Heartless, yes, but, time crunched to set things in motion, none of it could be spent on egg shell walking. “And Merry? What about him?” Aragorn pressed THE main button, cutting right to the chase. He was not about to have Pippin listed with the fallen in front of the Black Gates. Gandalf had also told of _everything_ he had endured, and Aragorn held the responsibility for that, the Uruk hai, very close.  
  
“Merry is well cared for. He can do without me for a while.”  
  
“He’s not completely healed, you know.”  
  
Mood dime spinning, a new and disturbing hard edge to the perpetual sunny Pippin of before. “Is that your professional medical opinion, _Doctor_?”  
  
“It would be better for all concerned if you just –"  
  
Having none of it. “Don’t you talk to me as if I were a child.”  
  
Aragorn stood up slowly, intent on sparing at least this one, to put an end to this uncomfortable conversation. “You deserve a rest, Pippin. After all you’ve done –"  
  
“What a crock of shit!” An explosion. “Goddammit! My partner is lying in a fucking hospital bed ‘cause I couldn’t keep my hands to myself!” Advancing, he came almost nose to nose with Aragorn. “And my friends, who I haven’t lifted a finger for since they left, are going up against the Eye! I’ll be damned if my ass will be doing anymore standing around and watching the parade go by! You go to Mordor, I go to Mordor. Case closed.”  
  
Just a few inches shy, Aragorn could look Pippin straight on. _Was he always this tall?_ “You don’t have to do this.”  
  
“Yes, I do. Don’t give a shit about The Ring anymore, the Big Picture can go fuck itself, this is for Merry. For Frodo and Sam. That’s all that matters.” He glanced down at the Palantir wedged between them. “Take it easy with that thing. Gives you one helluva’ hangover.” He walked away in silence.

And there it was. More blood on his hands, one more person he could not protect and shield from Sauron’s reach.

“Man, that kid has a mouth on him,” a sleep sloppy comment from the floor, Halbarad stretching out a yawn down to the other end of the building, “but, he’s right.”

“Pippin does not understand what he’s -”

“No, probably not.”

“The responsibility for his -”

“Is not yours, Strider. Yours is to lead.”

“But, if he -”

“Might happen, you don’t know. The choice is still his to make, though. As are his reasons,” up on elbow, some old style Free Lancer wisdom, “don’t devalue one by taking the other away from him.”

And a good leader knows when to accept defeat. “I will do neither.”

“Good. Just checking.” Prone again, head pillowed in his hands, the Ranger mused to the ceiling. “Hell of a day, tomorrow. A crazy, messy day. Proud to stand and fight, and yeah, maybe even -” another yawn, loud as it was long, “- but, a necessary day, ya’ know, if there’s gonna’ be one after.”

And there it was, in a nutshell, Halbarad’s unsubtle nutshell. They were going to war, for Arda, for mankind, for a future, and not even the Hero King could predict the outcome, be able to save perhaps everyone, anyone.

“An important day, one I might not -”

 “Go back to sleep, Hal.” _All I can do is - time for some show and tell._  
  
Fancy schmancy sword drawn and ready, the cloth dropped to the floor.

_For Frodo and Sam indeed._

Skin touched obsidian birthing a swirling fire within. Mind cleared, Aragorn face the Eye.  
  
_“I see you…Elessar.”_

 

  
  
* This quote comes from _The Return of the King_ , Book 5 Chapter VIII 'The House of Healing”


	15. 15

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter Fifteen

 

  
  
Sam woke to giggling.  
  
Frodo hovered above him, smiling. While they slept, Sam must have slipped down and now he was flat on his back, Frodo sprawled on top.  
  
“What?” said around a tongue coated with sleep and fatigue.  
  
Frodo’s smile tweaked to the lascivious and Sam followed his downward gaze to where their hips joined.  
  
“Is that for me?”  
  
_Damn._ “Just have to go to the bathroom, that’s all,” Sam sat up, taking Frodo with him. Embarrassed, he couldn’t think of a more inappropriate place or time for his body to betray him. “It happens that way, you know that.”  
  
Leaning in close, Frodo’s breath warmed Sam’s ear. “I can take care of that for you.” His hand offered Sam a preview.  
  
The Ring, Sam knew, body remembering its touch, the way each caress masked the corruption, domination hidden behind desire, could still taste the choking humiliation after the last time he allowed his body to be used. _Not this time._  
  
“Get you some Tylenol.” He gently pushed Frodo back. “You must be hurting.”  
  
“Don’t want that shit.” Frodo wriggled free of Sam’s touch to push in deeper. “Just you.” His tongue curled around an earlobe. “Give it to me. Come on, Sam. Show me how much you love me.”  
  
_Love? Got nothing to do with love._ “Going to get you some anyway.” This time Sam pushed Frodo away.  
  
“NO!” And they were in the same position as before – Frodo straddling Sam’s lap. But there was no comfort involved now. Frodo pinned Sam’s shoulders to the wall, his mouth slobbering at Sam’s throat. “I want it, and _you_ are going to give it.”  
  
Anger had tried, step back, take a breath, scratch this battle off the worthy of list, not take this out on Frodo, not blame him for the boorish, bullying behavior. It was the Ring, not Frodo that pawed at him. But, the Ring _was_ Frodo right now, and Sam had both no choice and enough. “The hell I will!” He shoved this time, Frodo fell off and away, Sam scrambling up before the groping could renew. “Don’t do that!”  
  
“Stupid kike,” mumbled, slumping against the wall.  
  
“ _What_ did you say?”  
  
Frodo’s hateful stare met Sam’s. “Nothing. Where are the fucking cigarettes?”  
  
_It’s trying again. The Ring. Pushing us apart, making him do things, say things. Not going to work. Can’t_ let _it work._  
  
“Here.” Bending down to snatch the almost empty pack was easy; standing back up, however, within his pants, Sam’s problem shouted like an angry two year old. “Oooooof!”  
  
Frodo caught the tossed pack with one hand. “Should take care of that _problem_ , Sam.” Cigarette between his lips bobbing with each word. “Both of them.”  
  
“I’m OK,” predicament reminder slapped back. A full bladder a large part of it, but, Frodo had slept in his lap, pressed there all night long, breathing in Sam’s ear, wriggling against his hips. It was just downright excruciating to have his Frodo that close and not be able to do anything about it. His hands had stayed chastely around Frodo’s waist. In his dream, however…  
  
_…the four-poster can’t take much more, and neither can I. Frodo digging his fingers into my ass, bending in half like that, squeezing me inside, shouting with each thrust, “Oh…_  
  
“…Sam?”  
  
Frodo pointed to the front of Sam’s jeans, right where a wet spot blossomed.  
  
“Fuck!” Mortified, Sam turned away.  
  
“My offer still stands. As do you.” Frodo blew a casual smoke ring.  
  
“No, thank you.” Tone as neutral and business-like as he could muster with Frodo sitting there rubbing on his own nipples. “I don’t need your help.”  
  
“Oooo! Gonna’ jack off!” He sat forward in anticipation. “Do it, Sam. I want to watch. Do it now!”  
  
_It’s not him, not your Frodo. The Ring. It’s the Ring._  
  
Gritting his teeth, Sam executed the perfect sideways lean and retrieved his pack. “Nope. Right now I’m going to check your bandages. Make sure you’re healing alright. The scrapes on your hands from the Stairs, your neck where that chain has cut through your skin –” _That damn Ring is giving you the world, then I’m gonna to remind you of everything it’s taken away_ “- the big gaping hole of a spider bite, what the orcs did to you when they raped you.”  
  
Frodo glared at Sam through a haze of cigarette smoke. “Shut up.”  
  
“Bruises on your arms -”  
  
“Told you to shut up.”  
  
“- whip burns on your back -”  
  
“Shut the hell up!” Frodo bolted up from the floor, advancing on Sam, fists balled and ready to strike. “Shut the hell up!”  
  
He met Frodo halfway, bringing them nose to nose. Despite Frodo’s shrieked demand, Sam continued the long list of physical violations.  
  
“- teeth marks on your chest-”  
  
With each defilement spoken, Sam picked away at another layer of the scab encasing Frodo.  
  
“- scratches on your thighs -”  
  
“Shut your goddamn mouth!”  
  
“- cuts up your asshole –”  
  
Frodo’s wounded and trapped animal wail knifed through Sam’s heart. _Shit!_ Clutching his head, Frodo collapsed to the floor, curling in on himself. Immediately, Sam dropped to his side. _Did I take it too far?_ “Frodo? Frodo!” Trembling hands slipped away revealing Frodo’s sheet-white face.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Confused and disoriented, but he was Sam’s Frodo again. The Ring had retreated.  
  
“How...what…I?”  
  
“Just stay there, Frodo,” Sam soothed, easing his way to sit with Frodo between his legs. “Let me take a look.”  
  
Submitting to Sam’s mothering, Frodo sighed. “Geez, I don’t even remember waking up. I must be losing my mind.”  
  
“You’re still sleepy, that’s all.” Before one finger was laid on Frodo though, Sam stared intently into his blue, searching for…  
  
“What? What’s wrong? I’ve eye boogers, don’t I?” Frodo swiped his glasses away and began to pick at the corners.  
  
“Stop it or you’ll dig your eyes out!” Playfully, Sam grabbed at Frodo’s hand. At the merest touch though, Frodo jerked away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”  
  
“It’s OK, I know. You shouldn’t apologize, it’s me.” Taking several cleansing breaths, Frodo relaxed back into the Sam’s circle. This time when Sam reached out to him, he did not shy away, only flinched. He willed numbness to return, that separation of mind and body that had shunted away the whole thing and had allowed him to function thus far. He didn't understand why all those memories were back. After the breakdown, after the Ring induced argument, steps had been taken, safety measures implemented, the…unpleasantries shoved aside, into a far corner. For some reason – exhaustion, pain, the Ring's insistent voice, or all together – he was no longer able to conjure up sufficient defenses against them. A more drastic, and permanent solution was needed if he wanted to stand another second of Sam’s touch.  
  
_Done this before, so many times. Will be a breeze._  
  
Defense mechanism traveled down, down through his life, pictured as a multi-stored house, the old Victorian kind with a boatload of rooms, staircases going everywhere, balconies and fireplaces even, attic to basement and beyond, down to the very end in the lowest dungeon of his mind, dragging razor sharp memories of that place, of the…behind him. He tossed them all inside the newly constructed room, and with shaky effort, shouldered the door closed, locking, bolting, barring it shut. Boxes, bags, chests and crates filled with anger, resentment and hatred, the regular jetsam left lying about his subconscious, were quickly thrown in front. Frodo wanted that place buried, lost, ignored. It would stay hidden this time. It had to. _There, it’s done. It’s gone. No more room, no more weak Frodo. No more…_ His trembling subsided. “So, do I meet with your approval?”  
  
“Always, Frodo.” Sam’s on the fly field first aid proved worthy, the welts on his back he could feel, while still tender – a sharp intake of air when Sam barely touched illustrated that – they had lost the bright fire and now looked like muddy ruts crisscrossing virgin snow. The cuts to his face and hands had begun to scab, and the bruises, while still a bottomless purple and blue, had not swelled again. As to Frodo’s other wounds, those were not that easily assessable and Sam’s hands paused over the waistband of  jeans. “Uh, Frodo?”  
  
Playing with a dangling piece of rubber on his sneaker instead of meeting Sam’s eyes, “I’m fine, Sam. I’m fine.”  
  
“And I plan on keeping you that way.” Believing it safe now, Sam bent around to give Frodo his first kiss of the day. Met with chaste approval, but, when the passion deepened, when tongue pressed in for admittance, panic flushed through and he jerked away again.  
  
“NO!”  
  
Unable to tear Frodo away from his Sam, the Ring redoubled its efforts to break apart the Ringbearer.  
  
_Pain and hands and fear and vomit and taking and shoving and teeth and -_  
  
“It’s OK, Frodo, here.” Sam pulled him back. “Just let me hold you, alright? Just want to hold you.” He soothed Frodo’s unruly hair. “That’s it, just hold you.”  
  
The Ring tugged on that door’s handle, its cackle high and loud. _"I've got you now, Frodo Baggins. Thanks to your Sam. He rekindled, and you showed me the way. I know just where to look. You're mine, Frodo."_  
  
The horror threatened to spill out, rending a soul so thin it was like an ancient cobweb at the mercy of an indiscriminate draft. Frodo went in search of more things to add to his memory barricade, more crates, more lesser demons to hold in the greatest. _What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s Sam, for fuck’s sake!_ “I’m sorry, Sam, sorry, so sorry.”  
  
The cackling continued.  
  
_“Never forget, never forget what they did to you. Won’t let you forget. You are mine.”_  
  
“Doesn’t matter. Just want to hold you, Frodo.”  
  
“Sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry.” _Got to shut It up. Got to shut It out._  
  
_"Never forget."_  
  
“Sssshhh, now. Frodo. I’m right here. Your Sam’s gonna take care of everything.” Sam kept up his stroking, each pass easing, diminishing - _Want to be whole again, want to be safe again, be just Frodo again -_ the strength of Sam’s arms, the solid conviction of his voice, the peace of being held, _my Sam_ , finally broke through, and Frodo gave in to the warmth, releasing his fear. With closed eyes, Frodo listened to Sam’s music - the Ring irritating feedback only - eternally thankful that this peace could still be his.  
  
With Frodo cradled quietly, one could almost forget what had happened earlier. Yet, there It was, The Ring on Frodo’s chest. Quiet now, but still staking its claim. Almost forget.  
  
Five minutes, two hours. Didn’t know how long they sat there on the floor. Didn’t matter. But, Frodo stirred eventually, stretching with a wince.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Now I’ve got to piss, too.”  
  
This was Mordor, sure, orc territory, Dark Lord stomping ground, and it would truly be the perfect metaphor, but pressing needs aside, just seemed wrong to use somewhere that had given them refuge as a latrine.  
  
“Right. Let’s go take care of it.”  
  
Before letting go, Sam righted Frodo’s glasses then touched his lips, gently kissing his hair. Frodo stiffened, but did not pull away.  
  
_"You'll never forget."_  
  
“Take these,” Tylenol in his out stretched palm, “and I’ll pack up.” Standing, Sam helped Frodo up.  
  
“Sam,” prescribed medication swallowed dry, Frodo executing the potty dance perfectly, “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
“Never pass up something free, as my dad always says,” instinct made Sam stuff those god awful orange overalls into his pack, badges and goggles on top of that. No room for the hard hats. He plunked one down on Frodo’s head. “And, well, ya’ never know.”  
  
Frodo looked up at the cracked brim. “Now I’ll have hat hair.”  
  
While listening at the door and finding silence beyond, “You will always be beautiful to me.” Sam grabbed Frodo’s hand. “Ready to go?”  
  
One attached to Sam, the other caressing the Ring, Frodo nodded. “To the Cracks, Jeeves.”  
  
One quick kiss to their entwined fingers, Frodo and Sam departed their last sanctuary, their last.

 

*****

 

  
First things first. While Frodo ran to the nearest corner, Sam found a convenient dead orc and emptied his bladder on its face. Very satisfying on many levels.  
  
The hallway as far as he could see, both ways, was as dead as his urinal. Nothing stirred. The security cameras still swept back and forth, however. Again counting hippopotamuses, Sam with Frodo in tow snuck by and slipped into the nearest stairwell.  
  
The dirty lights cast a depressing glow as they wound down toward the bottom. Frodo’s skin, pale to begin with, seemed like the plastic of a Tupperware bowl put though the dishwasher ten too many times, thin and faded. Sleep and rest evaporated with every step he took; with the cracked plaster wall to hold him up, Frodo allowed gravity to do the work, sliding downward more than walking. Up and down Sam went – taking point, then back to Frodo’s side – so many times, he doubled the amount a stair time actually required to reach the bottom.  
  
Once there, Frodo nearly crumpled to the trash strewn floor, but Sam was there to catch him.  
  
“OK, this is good, you’re good, Frodo, we’re good,” Sam scoping out the situation. He kicked at empty bottles, chicken bones. This was as far down as they could go, the stairs ending, the only exit an old rusty door. Where it led was anybody’s guess. But, it had to be a damn sight better than where they found themselves now. “Made it here, no fucking clue how much farther we’ve got to go, though.”  
  
“Close.”  
  
_I know that voice. He’s at It again, I’ll bet._ One look back over shoulder, and Sam’s suspicions were confirmed. In the corner at the bottom of the stairs, right where Sam had placed him, Frodo huddled, legs up to his chest, head leaning against the scratchy concrete blocks, gently stroking the Ring.  
  
“Very close.”  
  
The sensuality of Frodo’s touch on the Ring flared Sam’s anger and jealousy, an involuntary response sore from use. _Fuck! It’s back._ “Good. Then let’s get this show on the road.” Only way out, the door. _Easy enough._ The rusty door refused to cooperate, however, forcing Sam to use both hands to yank. “Just need to  -”  
  
“Close. The Eye is so close.”  
  
“Fucking…wonderful…to…hear.” One word, one yank. _Can’t find those cracks fast enough. Destroy the son of a bitch and get my Frodo back._  
  
“The Eye is…”  
  
A foot on the wall for better leverage. _Just too much, too much for him. Pain and hurt and suffering. Too much to ask!_ “A pain in the ass!”  
  
“The Eye is …”  
  
“Got it!” The door flew open.  
  
“Here!”  
  
_With arrogance and conceit, It flashed domination and control, seeking, power and avarice, searching, unquenchable and eternal, find -_  
  
Frodo hit concrete and the corrupt orange glow slunk right on by.  
  
Sam did not relinquish his hold on Frodo until both were away from the doorway. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Curses checking Frodo for further damage. _He can’t take much more, but I had to do something, Frodo wasn’t listening._ How he got there, Sam didn't have a clue. Yet, there he was - one second corner, then next doorway - ignoring Sam’s cries. Frodo had just stood there staring, bathed in the Eye, shining with a demonic halo, just staring back, not moving, staring. _And smiling._ Sam had grabbed Frodo’s ankles and pulled.  
  
“The Eye! It sees me! The Eye!” Frodo had shouted, then face twisted in pain.  
  
“It’s gone, Frodo, it’s gone.” Sam covered Frodo’s hand and not so gently pulled it away from the Ring. “The Eye is gone!” A shake for added emphasis.  
  
The terror melted from Frodo’s eyes and he slumped back into Sam’s embrace. “So close.”  
  
“Too close, if you ask me.” Tilting Frodo’s head, Sam looked closely. _Still only Frodo. Good._ “Sorry ‘bout knocking you down, there. You OK?”  
  
A weak nod his answer. “M’okay. Next time I’ll try to fall with more style.”  
  
He was paler than before, if that was possible, the last of the gauze used up for cuts to face and elbow reopened, His breathing ragged and shallow, but Sam figured under the circumstances, this was as good as could be expected. He moved Frodo from his shoulder to lean against the wall. “There better not be a next time,” crawling toward the open door, and peering around, Sam looked outside.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
The ground moved, flowed like scum across a newly disturbed stagnant pool. They were perched on a hillside, and down below hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of orcs were on the march. And ever watchful, the Eye burned in the distance. Like on those trucks, in his nightmares, so fucking high above Its corruption, the tallest tower ever, of flame and lighting, a single lidless eye…ruled. Further off, belching a smoke so black it stained even this grey shroud of a sky, a huge lump of a building squatted. Sam didn’t need to look on any map to find its name, knew instinctively what he was staring at: their final destination. Only it taunted from the other side of the complex with all of Sauron’s army in between.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“What, Sam, what is it?” At least Frodo was sitting up now, his color returned to that sickly white. “What do you see?” His hand constantly working the Ring.  
  
“Trouble.” Crawling back, Sam dove into his pack. “Here put this on.”  
  
Frodo just stared at the overalls. It smelled like orc, it felt like orc. He did not want that on his body. Again. “Why?”  
  
Sam stepping into his quickly, “Cause the entire orc population of the world is out there, and if we want to get by them, we need to look like them.” Hard hat and safety goggles, badge clipped to pocket – his name now Kharag - finished the job.  
  
“Don’t want to do this, Sam.” The hinges on the new door were straining outwards.  
  
“Here, let me help.” Pulling Frodo to his feet, Sam kept up a constant string of conversation – one sided for Frodo’s mouth and eyes were clamped shut – giving his love something to focus on instead of being dressed in the clothes of his torturers.  
  
“Hard hat,” hiss when hard plastic met bandage, “badge,” and Frodo became Magdud, “and goggles. Oh. Well, that’s not gonna work.”  
  
Frodo blinked out through dirty plastic. His skin itched as though bugs crawled all over him, in him, and he gasped in air through his mouth. But, he could still smell it. The Ring was jimmying the double dead bolt lock. “What’s not gonna work?”  
  
“Need to do something about our faces. Can’t say nothing about me, but you,” Sam’s thumb caressed Frodo’s cheek, “are as far from an orc as heaven is from hell.”  
  
Frodo leaned into Sam’s touch. He wanted to feel something other than the vileness that covered him. “But, we have nothing. No scarves, no –”  
  
“Then we’ll just have to make do, that’s all.”  
  
The loss of Sam’s touch a stab through Frodo’s heart. “Sam, what are you -?”  
  
Rrrrrripppp! “This will work.” The piece of crusty uniform he had torn from a dead orc  decomposing in the corner was big enough for two. Rrrrrrrippppp! “One for me.” Sam tied it around his face like a bank robber. “And one for –”  
  
“NO! Oh, NO! NO! Sam, I can’t! Don’t make me!” Shrieks running from Sam and heading back up the stairs, “Don’t want it! No, no fucking way! Get it away! Get away!” He kicked out at Sam who had tagged him by the waist and hauled him into a sitting position. “I can’t smell it, all the time, on me, on my face! NO! No, no way! Please, Sam, please no, Sam, NO!”  
  
Capturing Frodo’s flailing head between his hands, Sam knelt down to make sure eyes could meet. “OK, Frodo, OK! I’m sorry, I didn’t think. My fault. Stupid Samwise. Nor orc, OK. OK?”  
  
Frodo watched the piece of ripped fabric fly through the air and land on a pile of shit in the other corner. Memories peeked out from under the door. “I can’t, Sam, I just can’t!”  
  
“I know, Frodo, I’m sorry, OK? Something else then. OK?” Trusting that Frodo would not bolt back up the stairs again, Sam let go and went to work unbuttoning his overalls. Rrrrrippppp! He produced the tail of his shirt. “How ‘bout this? Will this work?”  
  
Nodding, Frodo closed his eyes and allowed Sam to tie the piece of shirt around his face. Breathing in deeply, Frodo’s panic subsided to a mere simmer. _Oh, Sam, smell you now, only you. Your warmth, your strength, your scent. Oh, Sam, my Sam!_  
  
“One more thing, I’m afraid.”  
  
Frodo eyes snapped open. “What the fuck now?”  
  
“Your glasses, Frodo. They need to come off.”  
  
Barely contained panic boiled over again. “But, I can’t, I wouldn’t be able to - I’m nearly blind without them!”  
  
“I know, Frodo, believe me, I know,” goggles removed slowly, “But, I doubt there’ll be many orcs out there with black fifties retro hornrims held together by tape.” His hand found Frodo’s. “You feel that, Frodo? Feel my hand? Touching you, holding you?”  
  
Frodo stared straight ahead. _Breathe in Sam, hold on to Sam, listen to Sam._ “Yes, Sam, I can feel you.”  
  
“Not gonna let you go, OK? Not gonna leave you.” The glasses slid off and into Sam’s pocket. “Hold on to me, Frodo. Not letting you go, ever. Remember that. I’ve got you always.” The safety glasses sat more flush to Frodo’s face now.  
  
“I can’t do this, Sam! No! Can’t do this!”  
  
“Hey! Hey!” Holding Frodo’s head still one more time, Sam brought his face into Frodo’s near-sighted field of vision. “Yes, you can do this! You _can_! You are the strongest person I know, Frodo. Strong and brave and all that other shit. You’ve made it this far and you’re gonna make it all the way, ‘cause you are the best and I love you. Strong! OK? OK?”  
  
“Sam, I –”  
  
“You’ve got my hand, I’ve got you, Frodo. Feel my hand?”  
  
_Feel Sam, smell Sam._ Blurry shapes and colors tinged yellow was all Frodo could see. “Yes, Sam, I can feel your hand.” _And hear your music, and  hear your –_  
  
_“He’s going to leave you,”_ the Ring whispered.  
  
Sam tugged on Frodo’s hand. “OK, time to go. I’ll talk you through this Frodo. Stay right next to me.”  
  
_“He’s going to leave you alone.”_ The Ring’s voice slipped in and around Frodo’s mind.  
  
“Going through the door now. Step down, that’s right. Just follow the path down. Hold on to me now.”  
  
_“When you get down there, your precious Sam is going to let go and leave you.”_  
  
“Watch out for those rocks! I’ve got you. Geez, there’s so fucking many of those damned things!”  
  
_“Leave you with all those orcs, just like he left you before.”_  
  
“NO!”  
  
“No what, Frodo?”  
  
“Nothing, Sam, nothing. How much further?”  
  
“About halfway there. Can see them now. Shit! Ugly buggers!”  
  
_“Those orcs will take you again, Frodo, take you again!”_  
  
Frodo tasted the salt of his sweat and tears beneath the mask of Sam’s shirt. _Sam’s got me. Smell him, feel him, listen to –_

_“Scratching, biting, snatching, licking, thrusting, filling –”_  
  
“Frodo!”  
  
Rocks stuck pointy shards into his knees, but Sam still held his hand. _Sam, oh, Sam, don’t let go! Don’t let me go!_  
  
“You OK, Frodo? Sorry, should have warned you about that hole. My fault. You OK?”  
  
Sam’s hand still hot in his. _If only it could warm the rest of me._  
  
_“Those orcs your Sam is leading you to will most assuredly keep you warm, Frodo.”_  
  
“Shut the fuck up!”  
  
“Sorry, Frodo, didn’t mean to make you –”  
  
Squinting, Frodo tried to focus on what he thought was Sam’s face. “No! Not you, never you. Not angry with you. Love you!” A blurry Sam smile.  
  
“Good. Can you get up? Almost there.”  
  
_“Almost down to the orcs, Frodo, down to where they will take you.”_  
  
“Doing good, Frodo, doing good.”  
  
Sam’s smell and his hand and his voice and his love and his –  
  
_“There where they will take you again.”_  
  
“There! We made it! Feel the ground, Frodo? How it’s level now?”  
  
“Yes, Sam, I can feel it.” _And you._  
  
_“Almost there to the orcs, Frodo, almost there! The orcs who will take you –”_  
  
“Now, all we have to do is just blend in –”  
  
_“ – paw you, grab you –”_  
  
“ - then mosey around the edges –”  
  
_Listen to Sam, not the Ring, not the…orcs surrounding…_  
  
_“- touch you, pet you –”_  
  
“- until we get clear of the pack –”  
  
_Smell Sam, not the rancid stench of the orcs crowding…_  
  
_“ – kiss you, fondle you –”_  
  
“Then it’s on to the Cracks!”  
  
_Feel Sam, his hand in yours, not the press of -_  
  
“Here now! What the hell are you two doing? Back in line!” Unknown voice…  
  
_“- suck you, stroke you –”_  
  
“Orders said to go this way. EVERYBODY goes this way!” Gruff voice…  
  
_“- fuck you, rape you –”_  
  
“Come on, let’s get it moving, you shitheads!” Orc voice…  
  
Shoved and bullied forward, bodies closing in, jostled and jerked and -  
  
_“ – again and again –”_  
  
Sam’s hand tore from grasp -  
  
_“See, I told you.”_  
  
\- that room’s door flew open wide.  
  
“SAM!”  
  
_“Maybe you should start listening to me.”_


	16. Chapter 16

**The Ring Unmade**

Chapter Sixteen  


 

  
  
“In times of great stress, instead of lashing out, why don’t you try this, Frodo.”  
  
The soporific voice of Dr. Taylor – child psychologist and idiot - somehow broke through the banshee wails of terror in Frodo’s head. Buried in a blurry nightmare inhabited by broken shapes of black and blood, he moved not of his own accord, but like a piece of driftwood, surrendering to the tidal wave of orcs surrounding him, always driving him forward. Hollow without Sam’s touch, Frodo clung to anything that wasn’t Ring or Eye or orc, anything that would help him _be_ Frodo.  
  
“Try to step back from the incident, empty your mind of the catalyst, and concentrate on something else, something that makes you feel safe and secure.”  
  
_After all these years, Dr. Taylor finally gives some good advice._ Frodo checked out to find his happy place.  
  
_Easy. Happy means one thing._  
  
Frodo snuggled deeper into the pliant mattress, nuzzling his nose and breathing in Sam’s sex scented skin. Sweat drenched, they sprawled naked on top of the bunched up duvet basking in the afterglow. Fingers slipped through Frodo’s hair, lips kissing away the sting when a tangle was picked free. Outside cold wind and rain rapped on the windows - an unwanted intruder - but inside, Frodo was safe and secure in Sam’s arms.  
  
“Frodo?”  
  
Unwilling to give up listening to Sam’s strong heartbeat, Frodo didn’t lift his head to meet the question, only hummed his answer against warm skin. “Hmmmm?”  
  
“Did you think you could hide from me?”  
  
Chuckling, Frodo kissed a shoulder and pressed his groin forward, spreading sticky across Sam’s thigh. “Kinda hard to hide anything when naked, Sam. Case in point…” His hand snaked down.  
  
“I knew right where to look. You really are very simple, Frodo.”  
  
His hand paused over Sam’s cock. “I think I’ve just been insulted.”  
  
“The first place you’d go.”  
  
“You know me, like to be where the hot action is.”  
  
“Yes, I do, Frodo. I _know_ you. Kiss me.” More a heated demand than a loving request.  
  
Frodo’s mouth was claimed, his hips snatched and shoved into position. So intense, the vise of Sam’s arm trapped him against searing skin. Almost _too_ much. Ready to climax already in his beloved’s firm grasp, Frodo felt his balls tighten up, his cock beginning to jerk. “Oh, Sam…”  
  
“Not _quite_.”  
  
Head held immobile by the handful of his hair in Sam’s clenched fist, Frodo stared nose to nose straight into Sam’s eyes.  
  
Only they weren’t.  
  
“Frodo Baggins.”  
  
They weren’t Sam’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “I found you.”  
  
It wasn’t Sam’s voice breathing into Frodo’s mouth. “And you are mine.”  
  
It was the Ring.  
  
“Forever.”  
  
Frodo jerked back, retching and spitting, pawing and swiping at his clothes. “Get off! Get off of me!”  
  
“What the fuck is your problem?”  
  
And he was viciously shoved forward into motion again.  
  
Packed in tightly, there wasn’t one part of his body that was orc free. Only the smell of Sam in his face kept him from shutting down completely.  
  
_Stupid! That was fucking stupid! Of course the Ring would know about Sam, know that he’s my refuge._  
  
“Perhaps an ordinary memory, a quiet moment of peace.” Further instructions from Dr. Taylor.  
  
_Quiet. Peace._  
  
Frodo ran through his life, through the upper floors, searching desperately for a memory, an escape, Sam’s music like tiney elevator Muzak over his shoulder.  
  
_Back, back, further back._  
  
Ithilien. Ocean City. Rivendell.  
  
In each room he found his memories had been tossed about, scattered across the floor, either broken and bashed, or shoved into the discard pile in anticipation of its new resident.  
  
_Before Sam. Before our love. Ordinary, safe._  
  
“Bilbo, that’s what instructions are for.”  
  
“I believe I can put together a simple bookcase without those stupid pages, Frodo. I’ve done this – Damn!”  
  
Leaping up from his casual slump on the couch, Frodo knelt down to his uncle who now sucked his hammer-smashed thumb. “Sure you can, Bilbo.”  
  
Clattering out in the kitchen announced that Bilbo’s employee and boarder was hard at work on supper. But, Frodo wouldn’t be eating at home tonight. Other plans: dinner with that new guy he met in class today, from somewhere near Philly he’d said.  
  
“I can put this thing together myself, ya know.” Frodo trying to match what Bilbo had constructed so far to the pictures on the instruction sheet. Nothing did. “It’s for my room anyway.”  
  
“You need to concentrate on school,” mumbled out around thumb, “don’t need any distractions.”  
  
A loud bang and a soft curse floated in from the kitchen. _Speaking of distractions._ “Don’t worry, Bilbo,” Frodo leaned in to pull apart what his uncle had put together, “Not going to fuck this up. Columbia, I mean.”  
  
Bilbo’s swat landed on Frodo’s arm. “Watch your language.” With Frodo taking over the actual construction of the bookcase, Bilbo lent his hand to the project by dumping out all the hardware – tiny screws and washers – and began to put them into neat piles. “You deserve the best of everything, Frodo.”  
  
“What I deserve is a bookcase that doesn’t lean to the left.” _When in doubt, bang on it._ Frodo’s hand slapped the flimsy structure of two sides and a bottom, shoving them plumb. _Better._  
  
“That’s what I want to give you, Frodo, everything. All that you want, all that your heart desires.”  
  
_And this shelf goes right here._ “I wouldn’t say that, Bilbo. I’ve got very expensive tastes.”  
  
“You name it, it’s yours.” The washers tinkled flatly in Bilbo’s palm, his fingers pushing the tiny circles around. “What do you want, Frodo? Tell me.”  
  
“Dinner’s ready!”  
  
_Him._ “Let’s see, a Mini Cooper, one of those new Xboxes they’re coming out with soon,” Frodo playing along with his uncle’s silly game, “wouldn’t mind a two week vacation to Vail to go skiing, either.”  
  
“You always think so small, Frodo. Puny and insignificant.”  
  
“OK, how about a Lexus, and the Alps?”  
  
“How about eternity?”  
  
Frodo stopped mid bolt placement. Not silly anymore, his crazy uncle was starting to creep him out. “Bilbo? Are you alright?”  
  
The Eye flamed out from Bilbo’s stare. “Guess again, Frodo Baggins.”  
  
_Shit! Shit! Oh, fucking shit!_  
  
The top floors violated, Frodo scrambled down, taking the steps to the murky depths of his mind two at a time.  
  
_I got the Ring from Bilbo. The Ring knows Bilbo. Not far enough._  
  
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”  
  
This hallway was dry and dusty, old and faded, the rooms crammed together, their doors shut and locked. Sam’s music was distant, sounding struggled out of an AM radio rusted into the dashboard of an old Chevy pickup truck, wire hanger for antenna, belching down a cracked two lane country road.  
  
_Yes, he’s still with me. Always._  
  
Each room labeled, a sign screaming Frodo’s shame. Door after door stuffed with anger, crammed with pain.  
  
High School. Psychiatrists. Cousins.  
  
Frodo wound his way down, recklessly running past some of the worst moments of his life.  
  
Thrown out. Kicked out. Coming out.  
  
“You can’t hide from me forever, Frodo Baggins. I will find you.”  
  
He reached the most recent additions to this deeply hidden wing, the door frames untouched, the knobs and nails shiny, the boards crisscrossing still new.  
  
Spider. Boromir. Nazgul.  
  
None of this would work, nothing here would help him disappear.  
  
“I’m getting closer, Frodo Baggins.”  
  
The hallway took a sharp corner, heading down again. Here the light barely touched. Here Frodo _never_ visited.  
  
His parents death.

That room. The –  
  
Frodo spit, his mouth full of the putrid filth oozing out around the decimated door frame. Slipping on the slime, he had fallen face first into those memories.  
  
“Frooooodo! Frodo Baaaaaaaggins!”  
  
They soaked through to his skin, dripped into eyes, held him fast to the floor. Frodo could do nothing except wallow in his degradation. A whimper – his own – could not cover those sounds, those voices -  
  
_“Give it to me, you cocksucker! Piece of shit! You love it, want it,_ need _it!”_  
  
“Close, very close, Frodo. And then you _will_ be mine.”  
  
_“So sweet, so tight!”_  
  
Pulling knees to chest, Frodo made his body as small as possible. Less to see, less to feel. Just less.  
  
_“Take it, goddammit! Take it all in! You need it, I know you do. You deserve this!”_  
  
No more. Frodo could take no more. The chase too long, the enemy too powerful. He sighed, almost thankful the fight was coming to an end. _It’s over._ He was ready to slip the Ring on his finger.  
  
“We will be one.”  
  
A hint, a puff of fresh air kissed Frodo’s slime slicked cheek. A whisper, a prayer, a snatch of a barely audible tune.  
  
_Sam._  
  
One of the boxes in his ineffectual barricade shoved aside when the door was breached, the one filled with shouted epithets by loving family members _fruit, fairy, faggot, sick, deviant, pervert, sinner_ finally proved useful as a hand hold. Frodo scratched up from the floor, arms shaking from the exertion. The rape did not want its victim to leave, though. Too much fun yet to be had. Frodo’s legs buckled, his knees sliding back down.  
  
_Can’t do this. Not anymore._  
  
The breeze wafted over his heated skin again, another phrase of music.  
  
_Sam!_  
  
A burst of stubbornness and desperation, and Frodo yanked his body free of the muck, tumbling over the big box jammed packed with regrets _not confessing to Sam sooner, not telling my relatives to get bent before, not stopping mom and dad from leaving._ This time it was the crate filled with broken dreams that helped him regain his footing.  
  
“Getting a trifle perturbed here, Frodo. Why do you insist on running?”  
  
Sam’s music, his constant companion. Not loud - more like a lullaby hummed from a nursery door to slumbering child – but it was there for Frodo. Sam was there as Frodo stumbled down the pitch black hallway.  
  
“No place you can go that I won’t eventually find you.”  
  
With the spongy wall as a guide, Frodo struggled to take each step. He left a trail of rape slime as he entered this last corridor. This was the end, he knew; every corner of his life and mind had been ransacked. Soon he would be backed up in a corner, to the wall, dark and inescapable. The Ring would indeed find him. It was inevitable.  
  
“It is your destiny.”  
  
“Often dormant memories,” Dr Taylor whispered again, “Tactile and vivid ones from long forgotten childhood moments offer the best place to retreat to.”  
  
“Frodo…”  
  
Sam’s lullaby began to fade again.  
  
_Lullaby. But, I don’t want to go there, don’t want It to find them._  
  
“…I see you.”  
  
Only one place left to go.  
  
“Oh, Frodo! I’m so proud of you. Cleaned your room, all by yourself. Just like a big boy!”  
  
“Made my bed, too.”  
  
“Come here and let me give my big boy a smoochy hug.”  
  
Frodo didn’t think it was what Big Boys did, but he crawled up into the waiting lap anyway. There might be a cookie, or even something better up there. Soft arms enfolded him, and he snuggled in, sniffing in the smell of Bounce fabric softener. If Big Boys didn’t do this, then they were stupid.  
  
“Clean room today, college tomorrow.”  
  
This felt nice, all warm and safe. Daddy was outside on the big lawn mower, Mommy holding him, fingers tracing the cracks on his palm. And somewhere music. Maybe Mrs. Boffin, the lady next door with the really big and scary dog, was outside washing her car, and the water would make a cool pond at the bottom of the circle street that after dinner he could play boats in. Maybe she had her radio on. It was a nice song – not like those stupid baby songs they made him learn at school. This one made even Mommy hum along.  
  
“What would you like to eat for supper, Frodo-love?”  
  
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Grilled cheese, tomato soup with cheese, mac and cheese.”  
  
Mommy’s soft chuckle tickled his hair. “Think I see a trend here. Why don’t I just plop down a chunk of cheddar on your plate instead, hmmmm?”  
  
“Cool. Can I have milk, too?”  
  
“With cheese?”  
  
Frodo screwed up his face. “That’s so gross!” Sometimes Mommy said the weirdest things.  
  
“In fact, seeing as how you like cheese so much, I could even put some in your cereal in the morning.”  
  
“Not cheddar, though. Corn Pops goes better with Swiss.”  
  
Mommy attacked.  
  
“Stop! Come on, Mommy, stop!”  
  
“Say cheese!”  
  
Frodo slipped down from his Mommy’s lap, fists clinging to her skirt, trying to escape the Tickle Monster. “Processed American!”  
  
“Oh, Frodo!” She scooped him up again and hugged him so tight Frodo thought his eyes would bug out of his head. “Mommy. Can’t. Breathe.”  
  
Her death grip let go. “Sorry, baby.” With a little bit of shuffling and smoothing, Mommy set Frodo back to the right place in her lap – head resting on her shoulder, legs hanging off to the left. “Instead of the cheese fest, how about grilled chicken stir-fry with snow peas and baby carrots?”  
  
That was Daddy’s favorite, not his, but Frodo didn’t mind too much. He could snag a few slices of cheese out of the fridge when Mommy wasn’t looking. “OK, I guess.”  
  
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Make you something special. Something just for you.”  
  
The mower noise stopped outside, and that meant Daddy was done with the lawn. Frodo gave Mommy a big sloppy wet one on her cheek before jumping down. Maybe Daddy would let him drive the mower this time. Not into the garage and next to the mini-van or anything, but just around the driveway maybe. “Going to help Daddy.”  
  
“Frodo.”  
  
Something in Mommy’s voice made him stop in the kitchen doorway. “Yeah?”  
  
“Before you go, there’s something I want to give you.”  
  
This was way cool, getting a present when it wasn’t even his birthday or Christmas. “What is it?”  
  
“What I promised. Something special. Something just for you.”  
  
Mommy’s face was all weird now, her eyes spooky. She stared at her clenched fist. “I don’t think I want it.” Frodo backed into the kitchen, afraid of his Mommy for the first time.  
  
“Sure you do, baby. I want you to have it. Would mean a lot to me for you to have this.”  
  
Frodo stared at his sneakers. He didn’t want to look at Mommy, he wished Daddy would come in from the garage so he would have something to hold on to. “Don’t want it, I told you.”  
  
“Frodo, look at Mommy when she’s talking to you. Look at the treasure.”  
  
“No, no.” Frodo was scared, so scared now. Mommy acting crazy, Daddy not here.  
  
“Frodo, you were meant to have this treasure. Come and claim it.”  
  
He didn’t want to listen to Mommy anymore. What she said was wrong. All wrong and bad. “Go away, leave me alone.” Just going listen to the music instead.  
  
“You will do as your mother tells you, young man!”  
  
Frodo did want to be a good boy, make Mommy and Daddy proud.  
  
“Frodo Fosco Baggins, come here!”  
  
He always listened to his Mommy. Maybe just a touch, a tiny, small one, just to see what she held. Mommy would never hurt him.  
  
“That’s it, Frodo-love. Take it, take it! It’s yours.”  
  
“Mommy?” Frodo could barely hear his own voice.  
  
“Claim the treasure as your own.” Mommy’s voice cackled.  
  
His fingers brushed his Mommy’s. And what his fingers touched was wrong.  
  
“NO! NO!”  
  
“Frodo, come back here! Listen to your mother!”  
  
Frodo ran, ran away from his Mommy, out through the kitchen towards the garage. Only it wasn’t his kitchen anymore - no fridge, no round table, no black and white tile on the floor. Just rock and smoke and fire. He wouldn’t listen to her ever again. He needed to find Daddy. He ran crying and screaming and pissing in his shorts like a baby, ran away, ran from his Mommy.  
  
“Frodo Baggins! I will find you!”  
  
He ran, ran to find the one safe thing, he ran to find –  
  
Something grabbed him, shook him, shouted at him, and he fought and twisted and kicked to get away. Frodo struggled to get free. He needed to find –  
  
“Frodo! Frodo!”  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
No, it wasn’t Daddy. Daddy was gone, Mommy was gone, everything was gone. Everything except fire.  
  
“Frodo!”  
  
And the music.  
  
“You’re safe now, Frodo, safe with me.”  
  
And little Frodo Baggins fell into the dark.  
  
 

  
*****

  
  
Sam held his breath and pulled Frodo closer, farther into the shadows as another mob of orcs argued by. Hidden for now, they huddled in a doorway, masked by the night. Leaning up in the corner and using his pack for support, Sam held Frodo in his lap, limp as a rag doll, unconscious and shivering.  
  
He was thirsty, with all of Mordor’s dust collected in his throat. But Sam wasn’t about to touch the last of the water. Save that for one whose needs were greater. Just sit here, then and wait for fucking latest orc ordeal recovery.  
  
Couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, half an hour tops, that Frodo had wandered alone. When they’d been separated, cruelly torn apart, Sam had raged through the ranks like the proverbial china shop bull, pushing and shoving, fighting and brawling, always searching for the smallest body in that endless sea of orange. Finally he had found Frodo by looking down. Crumpled on the side of the forced march, unnoticed and discarded, a black, almost torn to shreds sneaker stuck out from under a pile of debris. Three orcs had received elbows to the gut, and a couple hit Sam’s fist with their jaw before he reached the nearly buried body, and his bullying had conveniently started a fight within the crowd, giving the cover needed to pull lover free and away. No sign of consciousness, Frodo had stirred only once, to call him “Daddy’, and remained out ever since.  
  
_Daddy. That’s puts a whole new spin on our relationship, doesn’t it?_  
  
Shifting, a mumbling plea that Sam didn’t catch, Frodo snuggled deeper.  
  
_I’m here, my love. Your Sam’s got you._  
  
And that was the way it would be from now on. Even if he had to tie, chain or duct tape Frodo to his side, Sam would never again allow his love to be torn from his grasp. _Never again. Yeah, great, exactly what I said the last time Frodo was -_  Really should add this most recent screw-up to the long list he’d been compiling since the start of this fucking nightmare, but right now he didn’t even think he had the energy to kick his own ass. Too tired for self-recrimination, Sam stroked Frodo’s deathly pale cheek instead, willing what little reserve he had left to his love, giving away his strength to Frodo.  
  
Nubby fingers, caked with dirt, scratched at overalls, digging down through the fabric, stilling in peace only when they found the Ring. Sam watched as a small, contented smile settled on Frodo’s lips. The sight so commonplace, and accepted now without a twinge, of jealousy or hate.  
  
_Frodo and the Ring. Normal now. And that fucking scares the shit out of me._  
  
The omnipresent Shadow was there, of course; crowding, insinuating itself into their hole, just waiting for the chance to shove Sam aside and take his place in Frodo’s heart. All the time Frodo was lost, Sam had been terrified, choking on the inevitability that this was it, this time Frodo would be cut off from him forever. Barely there even now as he slept fitfully, Frodo the ghost limb, and Sam the amputee taunted by memories of what once was his alone.  
  
Outside their doorway, the night continued to rattle, but the sounds were distant, growing fainter all the time. They really should take advantage of the dark, much easier to sneak around without being noticed that way. But, as willing as he was to carry Frodo the rest of the way, the ache and leaden fatigue pulling at Sam spoke louder than his desire to finish this. Wouldn’t do them any good if he collapsed somewhere out in the open. Better to wait and rest. Besides, any sleep Frodo got, haunted or otherwise, could only be a blessing.  
  
A shuddering intake of breath and Frodo stirred weakly in Sam’s arms.  
  
_So much for that blessing. Should know by now – no blessings for us._  
  
“Sam? Where are my glasses?”  
  
“Here.” He quickly fished into his pocket and placed the broken things in Frodo’s hand.  
  
“Where are we?”  
  
_He doesn’t remember? Then let’s not remind him, OK?_ “The Hilton downtown,” Sam’s attempt to sound happy while shooing a roach off his foot. “Don’t you recognize the décor?”  
  
Cracked lips smacking - “Could really use one of those little pillow mints.” - Frodo surveyed their accommodations.  
  
“Just let me call down to the front desk and have some sent up.” A tiny smile, and Sam’s vision blurred with tears. “Oh, Frodo.” A kiss gentled to forehead.  
  
“I’ll settle for one of those instead.”  
  
Sam’s touch on Frodo’s lips just as tender.  
  
“It’s dark,” Frodo blinked against the grit in his eyes and adjusted glasses back right on his nose. “What time is it?”  
  
“Around one or two in the morning, I’d say.” Really had no clue as to the time, except that it all seemed like it was running out too quickly, the end reached before them, or moving so slow and they would be stuck in this place forever.  
  
“That late?” Settling back against Sam’s chest, Frodo pulled the chain from his arm pit, placing the Ring on chest reverently. He took off his glasses to smear the one good lens with the dirty cuff of his sleeve. “Had the strangest dream. About cheese and lawn mowers.” Glasses perched back on his nose, he took a sudden interest in their surroundings. “What the - ? Where the hell are we?”  
  
“I told you, Frodo, the -”  
  
“Stop the bullshit, Sam! This isn’t where I went to sleep -” an orange arm shoved in Sam’s face, “- and this isn’t what I was wearing. What the hell happened?”  
  
Sam gave out the barest facts in the most matter of fact way, so afraid of Frodo’s reaction. “We left the supply closet and walked down into -”  
  
“Oh, my god,” recent events sputter started back around, “you took my glasses, I couldn’t see, but you held my hand. But, when we got down there, we were - separated - and the orcs - and I couldn’t - feel you -”  
  
Sam held on tight when the convulsions began, held Frodo close as memory returned.  
  
“In my head, oh, Christ, my mind, it was there, everywhere, chasing me. I tried to hide, do what Dr. Taylor told me, find a happy place, with you, but that kiss, and then Bilbo with the bookcase, and all my rooms, my stuff - ran down, down to the basement,” chest heaved, eyes darting, flinching at things only he could see, “didn’t want to go there, but the Ring was always there, coming after me - and then I slipped, couldn’t get up, they were on me again, all over me, stripping me, _raping_ me -”  
  
Frodo’s ordeal became garbled within his sobs. Nothing else for Sam to do, but rock back and forth - soothing, comforting, listening - riding out the storm.  
  
“Didn’t want to - go there - one place - all mine - no choice - and it touched her - took her - MOMMY!”  
  
Sam panicked when breathing stopped. “Frodo! _Frodo_!” Shaking didn’t help, and neither did rubbing his back. “Breathe, goddammit!” One well-placed hard shot square in the middle of Frodo’s back did, however, and Sam’s own started again when Frodo finally gulped in a lungful.  
  
“Shit, you could have -” falling back to the concrete, he gathered coughing and gagging in close, “I won’t lose you, Frodo. I can’t.”  
  
“It’s too late, Sam. For her…for us…for me,” murmurs, slurred exhaustion taking control. He slumped in Sam’s arms. “It’s over.”  
  
“Go to sleep, Frodo. Just go back to sleep now. We’ll see how things look in the morning.”  
  
“Morning won’t change a thing, Sam. It’s the last one.”  
  
Held at bay, for brave face comforting, through bone dry battered willpower, until Frodo’s breathing slipped into the raspy sounds of sleep, then at last despair's tears allowed to fall.  
  
_The last one._  
  
He understood the meaning of those words. Frodo had always known, and now he did, too.  
  
No breakfasts in bed, no easy Sunday afternoons. No Frisbee tossing in Central Park, no festival candle lighting at home. Frodo would never again kiss Sam a peaceful goodnight, Sam would never grow old with Frodo.  
  
_The last one._  
  
They would be no homecoming for Frodo.  
  
Sam felt robbed, cheated. Sauron had ripped it all away, stolen their future. All that remained, or would ever be, was the past two months. The whole story of Frodo and Sam had been written in the blood and ash, pain and fire of Mordor.  
  
Mordor – where Frodo lay trapped, where he would destroy the Ring and where he would die.  
  
_Where we_ both _will die._  
  
Whirling around the small space, the chilling wind rifled through Frodo’s hair, lifting it up, sending dirty strands this way and that, revealing the oozing, raw line that cut into his neck. The sharp points of shoulder blade and hip poked at Sam, and even through filthy clothes, each rib and vertebrae could be counted by mere touch. The purples, blues, greens and yellows of fading bruises were the only colors Frodo’s skin possessed; even his cracked and swollen lips formed a thin, pale line, a knife slash cutting across a skeletal face. Resting without pretense in Sam’s care, the Ringbearer, this savior of Arda, struggled to draw in his next breath.  
  
_My love. My only love._  
  
Far off, a howl or growl or some other lonely soul mourned its plight to the night sky. Whatever, it sounded too close for Sam’s comfort, and his eyes left the sleeping form to search the enveloping darkness for trouble. Nothing found, just the same broken down buildings and strewn trash as before. Everything was the same, except -  
  
_Well, I’ll be damned._  
  
Must have been the wind, clearing the way, blazing a small path through the smoke and haze, but for the first time in days, Sam gazed up at clear sky. Indescribably dark and deep, that free patch of night sparkled and danced, and Sam wished he remembered his constellations, wished he regonized what or who smiled down upon them. He did know the light that entranced was actually thousands of years old, just now reaching Earth after traveling across the vast emptiness of space, the stars blinking their eons old greeting, as it has always been, as it shall always be, regardless of the petty goings on down here on Earth, the mysteries of the Universe on nightly display.  
  
Something – Sam would never call it hope, he didn’t have the time for such a luxury – wound its way through his despair as he stared at the sky, gradually calming and propping up his weary soul. Out there – beyond the dark, on the other side of the Black Gates, outside of Sauron’s evil - something still existed.  
  
It just had to.  
  
_Or what else was Frodo’s sacrifice for?_

 


	17. Chapter 17

**The Ring Unmade**  

Chapter Seventeen  


 

 

  
  
_If I add the assets before Helm’s Deep_ – The sleeve of her robe caught the top of Eowyn’s pen. She pushed it back up her arm absently – _to losses accrued since Helm’s Deep_ – The sleeve slipped down her arm again. She pulled it back – _then the farm has about $43.10 on the black side. But, when you add the projected losses from Minas Tirith_ – the sleeve snagged again. She shoved it back up her arm – _we are in the red by_ – The sleeve came down to bother her one more time.  
  
“Dammit!”  
  
She yanked and rolled and snatched and folded both sleeves until they were uncomfortably bunched in her armpits. That solved her sleeve problem, but now the pen lay several feet away, having escaped her lap, and the cheesy calculator scrounged by the nursing staff from an old junk drawer in the store room because the few working tablets could not be spared was a pile of pink plastic and numerals at her slippered feet.  
  
“Oh, the hell with it,” frustration set aside the spiral notebook crammed full of torn out pages. The figures all added up to a bleak financial picture for Rohan no matter how many times she punched that cheap calculator. She really didn’t want to face the hard facts right now anyway. This sudden interest in accounting was only an excuse to escape her dismal room. She no more wanted to face the damage done than she did the reason why she was the only one left to do it.  
  
_I’m alone now._  
  
“So, you’re just going to ride off. Again,” Eowyn had snapped at her brother’s head stuck in her door before sunrise this morning to say goodbye, “And leave me to pick up the smashed pieces of what’s left?”  
  
Startled by his sister’s vehemence, Eomer opened his mouth, witty comeback on tongue, but the tears sparkling in her eyes quickly softened his remark. “Wyn, you know it’s not over. Rohan must see this through to the end.”  
  
“We’ve helped enough!” Ice chips, and the mustard colored pitcher hit the far wall. “We’ve given enough for the cause! Rohan is in shambles, Mer.”  
  
“There won’t be anything left at all if the Dark Lord is not defeated.”  
  
“But, you don’t even ride to finish this, just to play decoy for some kid who may or may not be there in the first place!” Eowyn paced the confines of her room despising the truculent tone in her voice. But, she felt she had every right to the anger. Being a lifetime team player granted her the right to voice her opinion. Or so it should be. “Rohan needs you here, not riding off on a whim.”  
  
Eomer chuckled. “Don’t think you’d call this a whim. Aragorn assumes that -”   
  
“Aragorn! Don’t _even_ get me started on him!”  
  
He quickly side-stepped the oblique mention of her private life, gossip in close quarters so easy to overhear, one quagmire he did NOT want to become bogged down in. “You’re just pissed off because you can’t ride with us, that’s all. Not so easy to sneak out of here, is it? That Ioreth would catch you before your foot hit -”  
  
“I’m pissed because Rohan is battered and broken, her dead burnt to a crisp, her livelihood charcoal ruins. I’m pissed because we’ve been asked to give and give until there’s almost nothing left of home to fight for while the rest of the world sleeps. I’m pissed, Eomer, because, because -” a sharp intake of breath produced a mournful sob, “you could die, too.”  
  
Eomer’s arms swallowed up the slight frame. He hugged her through the initial protest, _“No, just let me go!”_ through the release of her tears, _“I couldn’t do anything, Mer, nothing!”_ and through the sniffles that followed _“Getting your shirt all wet.”_ He hugged her and whispered tiny snatches of memories they shared. He held her close and spoke of good times for both of them. He held her close, reminding her he was still big brother.  
  
“I miss him too, Wyn,” commiseration murmured into her hair, “But, Uncle would want this. He understood why.”  
  
“Don’t die, Mer! Please don’t die and leave me alone. Please! _Promise_ me!”  
  
Walking Eowyn backward, just like when she taught him how to waltz, Eomer deposited his sister on the edge of her bed. The tissue box snagged from the bedside tray he offered to her as he knelt down.  
  
“Eowyn, don’t ask me to make a promise I have no way of keeping.”  
  
“But, I can’t -”  
  
“Yes, you can, Wyn. You can and you _will_. If it comes to that.”  
  
The tissues in her hand became lace shredded by trembling fingers. “I’m so scared, Mer.”  
  
“You and everybody else.” He titled her head up, forcing a meeting of eyes. “I have to go. For Rohan, for Arda. You know this is the right thing to do.”  
  
Not trusting her grief and panic to shout out a denial of the truth, Eowyn’s answer a simple nod.  
  
Her forehead received a lingering and brotherly kiss before he left, “I love you,” Eomer’s parting words.  
  
_The right thing to do. The_ right _thing to do._  
  
The previously bothersome sleeve unrolled quickly to provide Eowyn a place to wipe her tears.  
  
_Right for Eomer to leave. Right to help Gondor. Right for Rohan to bleed. Right for Rohan to die._  
  
It was selfish, she knew. Selfish and unproductive, this self pity. Others had lost husband, son, mother, friend. Death touched everyone. She should be grateful that her brother still lived - _but for how long?-_ and not dwell on what she had lost. But, no matter how much of that infamous Riddermark stubbornness and iron will she attached to those rationalizations, Eowyn could not banish her feelings of despair and persecution.  
  
“And let’s not forget failure.”  
  
The battle thundered in her head, and she closed her eyes, certain that if she tried hard enough, _this_ time the memory would end differently.  
  
_“Just lie still. No, don’t talk! You need to save your strength.”  
  
“Too late. Too much. Must face the truth.”  
  
“No, Uncle, no. The medics will come and they’ll take you to the hospital and do surgery or whatever and then you’ll be fine.”_  
  
Eowyn had clung to what little life her uncle still possessed, her lap a cradle for his head. With one hand she pressed her jacket to staunch the ooze of the bullet holes – soaked crimson leather – while her other gripped her uncle’s, trying to stem the seeping cold that ebbed and flowed up her arm from their desperate touch. Death was coming, a blackness that trickled, insinuated, eroding the anchor of a life force too broken to fight back.  
  
_“You’ve must let me go. It is my time.”  
  
“I can’t. Got to save you.”_  
  
The jacket pressed harder and two new streams flowed to the sea of blood and mud they wallowed in. Caught in a riptide with each crashing wave she fought to hold on. It drenched and filled her mouth, stung eyes, chilled bones, tossed her about until she almost lost sight of the shore. One bright spot – her uncle’s smile. That’s what she concentrated on and swam against the shadow to reach.  
  
_“Not afraid to die, you know. My life now had a purpose.”  
  
“Hold on, Uncle Theoden. Hold on a little while longer. Please!”  
  
“So proud, proud of you, Eowyn.”_  
  
She had watched, helpless, as his smile slipped away to empty.  
  
Too tired to fight any more, she stilled and allowed the black tide in.  
  
_And I was perfectly content to stay there, thank you very much! But, no._ He _had to step in and…_  
  
Sure, she had been alone, riding the waves, floating, adrift, lifeless. And there was a disquiet about the water that entombed her. It lurked deep, always circling, tightening, growing nearer. Here, though, within the dark, she didn’t have to try anymore, she didn’t have to worry or care. Being here, alone, meant no one could leave her. No rejection, no death. There was just nothing.  
  
_Peace at last._  
  
A sound. A tickle really, in her ear. Someone calling her name. She ignored it, settling further into her oblivion. Persistent little bugger of a voice kept bothering her, though; louder and louder, until the tickle became a whisper, and that whisper widen to a shout.  
  
_“Eowyn! Come back! Eowyn, come back!”_  
  
Her right arm hurt like a son of a bitch, and the dark sea around her was no longer placid, but roiling and angry.  
  
_“Eowyn, come back to me!”_  
  
Menacing and uninviting now, her blissful nothingness ceased to exist. The voice had seen to that. Fear and a visceral need to survive seized her, had to fight, to try, to live. _I’m here!_ She swam against the waves that clawed and snatched and sucked to reach up - _I’M HERE! -_ to be pulled to safety. To answer his call.  
  
_“Aragorn!”_  
  
He held her hand, forehead pressed hard to their templed knuckles. His shoulders sagged a ragged rhythm. In the air, a heavy scent of herbs and smoke, fluorescent light borrowed from the hallway cut the bed in half, leaving her still in darkness. A squeeze alerted him to her return.  
  
“Aragorn, you called for _me_.”  
  
His eyes had found hers – grey, clear, calm, kind - and then she was reintroduced to the truth.  
  
_Why? Why did he even bother? Not because he wanted or needed me. But out of duty, obligation. Friendship. Because it was the_ right _thing to do._  
  
Angrily she swiped at her face, cast barely missing her nose. Eowyn hated herself more now than ever before. For her weakness, for being gullible, for her inability to shut Aragorn out of her heart. And to make matters worse, she could not throw so much as a dart of blame Aragorn’s way. No promises were made, no commitments had been spoken. Only the fantasies cooked up in her own silly, girlish mind.  
  
The rest of her morning had not improved, starting with Eomer’s departure, the confirmation of her uncle’s death, the fire out on the field and the full impact of what Rohan sacrificed came rolling in her door one after the other until changing her mind seemed impossible under the weight of the burden she now carried.  
  
One bright spot did shine for Eowyn, though. Merry, her co-conspirator, was alive, banged up and with a gimp arm, like herself, but safe and reunited with Pippin. After breakfast the sounds coming from the other side of the wall by her head proved it. She had discreetly turned up the TV.  
  
_His circle whole. Mine still woefully incomplete._  
  
The hot tea Ioreth had insisted Eowyn take with her out to the cold had retained its warmth for about five minutes, and now was as chilly as the hand wrapped around the chrome travel mug. A bright afternoon poured down across the White City as if the sun was trying to makeup for yesterday’s black by giving October 17th a double dose. Not cheered by the celestial gift, Eowyn felt more alone now than when she swam in the black sea. Her main source of strength and guidance dead from injuries sustained during the battle, her closest confidant and sparing partner was gone to probably end up as another name on Rohan’s causality list. The man she thought she loved leading that ill-fated mission east.

_Welcome to real life, Eowyn._  
  
Something fluttered out of the corner of her eye. She turned to watch a breeze ask a loose piece of notebook paper to come out to play, the invitation gleefully accepted.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
A trail of white lead her away from the bench, one she followed grumbling, snatching up each escaped page into an ever growing wad of useless figuring. _Don’t know why I even bothered._ The pages were helpless, caught in the prevailing cold wind as Eowyn stumbled about, trying to bring them all in safely. _Well, if this isn’t indicative._ A biting blast blew across from the east, sending the last loose-leaf page out of Eowyn’s sight. Running, she knew she would reach the corner just in time to watch the paper fly off the balcony, lost forever. _Just like Rohan. Just like me. I hate symbolism._  
  
Corner gained, she watched the wind grow tired of the game, allowing its flimsy plaything to drift down to the stone. Determined to succeed in something today, even so small a task, Eowyn dove for the paper before a breeze could reclaim the toy.  
  
“Gotcha!”  
  
She held the paper firmly, but wouldn’t be adding it to her wad. Not as long as the slipper on the other end refused to budge.  
  
“Do you mind?”  
  
“Not at all.” The foot lifted. “Just trying to help.”  
  
“Thank you.” She snatched the paper back with dramatic flair. Getting up with any grace or style, however, was completely elusive. Paper wad in one hand, cast on the other, Eowyn had to rely on elbows and knees to lever her body up. The robe caught again, this time on her foot, and with a mild curse, she pitched forward, straight into a pair of legs.  
  
“Easy now.”  
  
A strong arm gripped about her waist, drawing her to standing. The view along the way was unremarkable – pj’s, robe, sling – but, when her feet were firmly planted again, she was hit with eyes the color of a cloud wispy sky. “Oh.”  
  
“Difficult to become accustomed to not having two good arms, isn’t it?” The sling presented as evidence.  
  
She knocked on her cast. “I hate this thing. And it’s my right hand, too. As if my handwriting wasn’t bad enough.”  
  
“Is that what the papers are? Your writing?”  
  
The wad crinkled in her good hand. “No. Just an accounting problem.”  
  
Sun-burnished lashes swept down to a smattering of freckles and pink lips quirked sideways in a smile. “You came out here in the cold to do math?”  
  
“Need I point out that you are out here in the cold, too?”  
  
“Yes, I am, and I don’t even have a lame excuse like you.”  
  
Eowyn supposed she should take offense at that remark, but delivered in such a charming manner – and so very true – her feathers never even ruffled once. “How did you get past the Sergeant?”   
  
Voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone. “I snuck out. I’m supposed to be in the bathroom.”  
  
“And how long have you been, uh, indisposed?”  
  
“For about twenty minutes now.”  
  
“Long time.”  
  
“I drank a lot of coffee.” The smile brief but brilliant. “Just couldn’t stand to look at beige for one more second.”  
  
“I can sympathize.”  
  
“But, this view does nothing to cheer me, either.”  
  
Stretching out, Pelennor Fields built a black, charred bridge between the white stone of the city and the green of the trees beyond. _And out there Uncle Theoden died._ His limp hand she still felt in hers. It wasn’t until the robe wrapped her shoulders in warmth did Eowyn realize she was shivering. “No, I can’t take your –”  
  
“I’m fine. Really. But, you should go inside. Want to add pneumonia and give them another reason to keep you locked up?”  
  
“Maybe that’s what I have to do to keep you in your room. Hmmm?”  
  
Both patients winced at the sound of that stern voice.   
  
“You said you were using the restroom.” Ioreth looked over the balcony’s railing. “Not here, I hope.”  
  
“Just needed a little air, that’s all.”  
  
“Next time, ask for a fan.” She grabbed the good elbow. “OK, recess over for today. Back inside, Faramir.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am.” The devilish wink completely for fellow escapee’s benefit.  
  
“And you’re right behind us, Eowyn. Sheesh, what is it with you hero types?” She gently pushed the reluctant patient around the corner. “Need a global tracking device to keep up with you.”   
  
Knowing there would be dire consequences should Ioreth’s orders not be followed to the letter, Eowyn took one last look out across the battlefield, snuggled deeper inside the robe - _Faramir. So that’s his name_ \- and left the cold afternoon. Like a tumbleweed, the wad of her figuring, pushed by the wind, rolled abandoned into a corner.

  
  
*******

  
  
Even before he opened his eyes, Merry knew something was wrong. He didn’t cling to the edge of the bed, his back was covered completely by blanket and sheet, no nasal snores breathed in his ear. “Pip?” His hand searched beside him. No warm snuggly body, no mumbled morning endearment. Only the cool, sharp edges of…something. “Pip?” No answer returned his call. “Pippin!” Room silent, empty. Dark.   
  
Merry yanked at the chain again and again, until the light above his bed glowed on high, spilling out diffused fluorescent. _Better, but not good enough._ He scrambled out of bed and limped to the window, jerking open the curtains. Next it was the blinds on the one to the hallway. _Still not enough._ He switched on the bathroom light, too.   
  
He swiped good hand across his face, slipping through cold sweat as he labored to calm his breathing, bring his pounding heart back into rhythm. Merry didn’t like the dark anymore. _Not since…_ He rushed to the window to stare directly at the sun, willing it to burn through him, to eradicate every shadow and hidden place within. Merry had had enough of the dark.  
  
_Where the hell is Pippin? He should be here, he was here when…calling me, heard his voice…need his voice…him…to keep me here._ Need _him to stop the -_  
  
Grinding teeth, balled fists white-knuckle tight, used every ounce of battle depleted will to hold it back, keep the memories away. They were too strong, though, too deep, too vivid. Exploding outward, thick and searing, the black flowed unhindered.  
  
_Can’t move! Can’t see! Can’t breath! Help! Shit, damn, fuck! Help! Somebody, anybody, help! Oh, shit. I’m dead. I’m dead and this is hell. I died and I’m in hell. In a box, a dark box alone. For all eternity, in the dark, alone. No nothing, no anything, just the dark and - Fuck! What, what’s, what the hell is that? Get off! Get the fuck off! Oh, Christ! No, no, no, no, god, no! Get off! Get the fuck off me! Crawling, up my leg. Can’t – get – it - off! Help! Goddammit, get off! What the fuck is it? Oh, shit, on my hand, over my hand, it’s fucking on my hand! Help! Can’t move, can’t breathe - Get off! Get away, please, god, get away, please go away! My chest! Help! Fuck! Please, please, leave me alone, get off! Can’t breath, can’t escape. Eternity in the dark. Neck, the dark, on my skin, alone, in my mouth. Help! Please! Down my –_  
  
“Whoa! Sure is bright in here!”  
  
“Who the fuck are you?” A snarl wheeling away from the window. “Where’s Pip?  
  
“Hey, are you OK? You don’t look so good.”  
  
“I’m fine!” Tears that came from staring at the sun too long – wouldn’t entertain any other explanation - brusquely wiped away from pale cheeks. “I’m fucking fantastic! What the hell do you want?”  
  
“I bring breakfast and sparkling conversation to keep you company.”  
  
Merry didn’t think he could eat, something else clogged his throat. He bit the inside of his cheek, holding in his fear. “Not hungry.”  
  
“OK, then.” Milk paused before entering the cereal bowl. “Let’s just move on to the conversation part. How’d you sleep?”  
  
“Shitty,” unkind and cruel, and proud of it, “and you?”  
  
“Didn’t. Too much to do around here. Did go back to my apartment to take a shower, something I’m sure you are grateful for. Thank god, it wasn’t damaged too badly. My apartment, that is. Cold, of course, hot water for essential facilities, like here, and no electricity. Really strange taking a shower that way. Would have been romantic, but, alas, I was alone. Couldn’t see anything! Put body wash in my hair, then it got in my eyes. Would have been funny if I wasn’t in the small stall in complete darkness, and -”  
  
“Who the hell are you?” Interrupted before the story could continue to babble on, “and what the fuck are you doing in my room?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just limped by, heading for the door. “Got to find Pip.”  
  
“You didn’t read the letter, did you?”  
  
He paused in the doorway. “What letter?”  
  
“There, on your pillow.”  
  
Holding his side, incision stinging like a bitch, Merry returned to bed, easing down, turning away from that person intruding. The envelope heavy in hand, his name scrawled across the front in a distinctive style. “Oh no, Pippin, You didn’t.”  
  
_Dearest Merry,  
  
          Sorry I couldn’t be there for good morning kisses, but we had to leave before _

_sunrise and I  didn’t want to wake you. You need your rest. Now, I know what_

_you’re thinking –_  
    
“Stupid, Pip, really stupid.”  
  
_\- you’re calling me stupid right about now, and that’s another reason why I left_

_without telling you, ‘cause you would have yelled at me and tried to change my_

_mind.  
__  
__You can yell at me now, if you like._  
  
“What the fuck were you thinking? That’s the problem, you weren’t! Why the hell did you go with them? Huh? _Why_?”  
  
_For Frodo and Sam. For them. I had to go for our friends._   
  
“But, you should have waited, I could have gone with you.”  
  
_And, no, you couldn’t have come with to Mordor. You gave at Minas Tirith._

_And almost died, if you recall. Now it’s my turn._  
  
“My hero.”  
  
_While I’m away, I have a substitute for you. Not in everything, mind you, but just_

_to keep you company. Be nice to Gerbil._  
  
“Don’t want a fucking substitute. Want you.”  
  
_And watch your language! She’s a lady.  
  
      I love you, Merry Brandybuck. Don’t  ever forget that! Or me._  
  
“Like that’s even possible.”  
  
_The best bottom you’ve ever, will ever have.  
__  
__Pippin_

  
  
Merry’s cheeks were wet again, and this time he could not blame it on the sun. “Oh, Pip, you stupid fucker.” _God, I love you so much!_  
  
“I tried to talk him out of it -”  
  
Engrossed in rereading his partner’s letter – the only thing he had of Pippin right now except for his memories – Merry tuned out ‘The Substitute’ hoping she would get the hint and leave the two of them alone.  
  
“- heart set on going, no matter what I -”  
  
_So angry at you! Not telling me, running off to get killed. Again! So fucking angry!_ Merry almost blindingly so, and terrified of all the What If’s? at play here. Yet, even if the opportunity to present his long list of reasons why Pippin shouldn’t travel with Aragorn, Merry knew that it probably would all have been wasted breath. _Once he gets an idea in his head –_  
  
“ – idea in his head, there’s no stopping him.”  
  
That broke through. “What, what did you just say?”  
  
“Pippin’s stubborn streak. You know how wide it is.”  
  
Merry scowled over the letter, suddenly wary of this substitute. “And you do?”  
  
“Well, I like to think that I do. Pippin and I have become very close since he arrived.”  
  
Open and smiling, her manner was friendly and courteous, and if his partner trusted her, Merry had no reason to doubt. Still, at closer inspection, he discovered a disturbance in her hazel eyes, and recognized it for what it was immediately. She had been infected, an acute case, and Merry knew from personal experience that there was no known cure for Pippin.  
  
_He’s mine!_ He snatched at a piece of dry wheat toast, biting down hard. _When he comes back, it will be to my arms, my heart, to me. Not you._ “Gerbil. That’s a fucked up name.”  
  
She blushed. That coy move didn’t gain her any points. “That’s just Pippin’s nickname for me.”  
  
_Oh, they have pet names. How fucking adorable._ He tore into the toast again.  
  
“He rearranged the letters. Gerbil from Bergil. Too bright in here, don’t you think?” She switched off the bathroom light.  
  
“Bergil. That’s not much better, and I like the light, thank you.”  
  
“Turn off just a few, OK? Well, in the grand old southern tradition, I was named for my great grandmother. It was her maiden name.” The blinds showing the hallway were louvered down.  
  
_Wonder if they sipped mint juleps together._ “Stupid ass tradition gave you a stupid ass name, and I thought you said just a few.”  
  
“Actually, it’s my middle name. I just use it because Bergil sounds more sophisticated.” She futzed with Merry’s pillows, the blanket, the empty cartons on the bedside table, above bed light clicked down a  couple of notches. “Don’t want to strain your eyes now, do you?”  
  
_Just like the perfect housewife and mother._ This time Merry did growl. “You think Gerbil is sophisticated?”  
  
“Better than the girly, silly name my parents gave me.” She paused in her tidying to look directly into Merry’s eyes.   
  
Pippin’s spark flared in there, deep and strong. _I’ll fight for him. Do whatever it takes to keep him._ “Don’t touch the -”  
  
The curtains closed. The room was dark again. “I mean, who would take someone named Diamond seriously?”  
  


 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I humbly apologize for posting this chapter a day late.

 

**The Ring Unmade  
** Chapter Eighteen  
  
  
  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
The last bottle of water bounced out across the barren field, empty.  
  
“Why don’t we rest for a minute, catch our breath.”  
  
They had been walking, in Frodo’s case stumbling, since morning - or what passed for morning in the land of shadow – toward a destination shrouded in a fog that clung to the ground with unwelcome houseguest tenacity, and after longs hours it never seemed to get any closer.  
  
“What I wouldn’t give just to brush my teeth.”  
  
No other living soul around. Sam didn’t think the scrawny, mottled, sore infested, runny-eyed things with tails twice as long as their bodies that scurried in the shadows really counted as living. Nothing since abandoning their doorway. Nothing but broken rocks and distant rumblings to keep them company.  
  
“And a shower. Even a freezing cold one with no soap or towel after, I’d kill for.”  
  
Sam believed the solitude, if not the landscape, a rare blessing. The orcs had disappeared. He didn’t waste a second wondering where to or why - they traveled unmolested and that was enough. But, blessings are often package deals, and the flip side to their freedom grew more insistent with each step.  
  
“Oh, yes I will! Gonna do it. Yes, yes, YES! Can’t stop me, you can’t, no I won’t!”  
  
Frodo’s conversations with the Ring never stopped.  
  
“Promise me, promise me everything, talk and talk and talk, but no. You can’t!”  
  
Sam had given up listening two hours ago.  
  
“That damn building’s got to be around here someplace.” He squinted into the fog, not quite ignoring Frodo’s labored wheezing. “Whatcha’ think? Close?”  
  
“Try it, try it, go ahead and try it. Won’t work. Stronger. Oh, yes I am!”  
  
“Should have drawn a map or something. Looked a whole hell of a lot closer from back there.” Sam dumped out the contents of his boots. A small pile of pebbles joined their brethren at his feet.  
  
“Shut up, shut up, shut – NO!”  
  
“Got to be going in the right direction, just got to be!” Feet unencumbered, he wiggled his toes, feeling more stones between. “Oh, gross!” Socks stripped off immediately.  
  
“No, no, no, nonononononononononononono!”  
  
“If only this damn fog would lift, or shift or just thin out a bit. Something, so we can see where the fuck we’re headed.”  
  
“The cracks.”  
  
“My people have a tendency to wander and get lost,” he turned socks inside out before slipping them back on, “but, I sure as hell don’t want to -”  
  
“The cracks, Sam.”  
  
“- be out here no fucking forty - What did you say?” His footwear situation instantly forgotten. “Frodo? Are you talking to me?”  
  
“The cracks, Sam. We’re here.”  
  
The barest of outlines, tall and ominous, peeked through the swirling mist. Sam’s impromptu rest had set the lost pair down no more than five hundred yards away.  
  
“Well, I’ll be damned.”  
  
“It’s almost over.”  
  
Sam’s heart soared when Frodo turned a hint of a smile in his direction.  
  
“Almost over, love.”  
  
Then it was gone.  
  
“Oh, yes I will. I’m gonna fucking do it. No, NO! Watch me, just you watch me!” Frodo sprinted forward.  
  
“FRODO! Ow! Damnit!” The ubiquitous rocks cut into Sam’s feet. “Of all the times – Frodo!” _He’s alone again, headed to the cracks. Shit! Go in!_ “Frodo! Wait, wait for me!” _Idiot for wasting the time._ “Frodo! Don’t, not without me!” _He’s alone, alone, all alone!_ “FRODO!”  
  
The worst lacing job in history had Sam’s boots flapping as he ran after Frodo, the fog closing in again.  
  
“FRODO!”  
  
A shriek of pain sliced Sam deep.  
  
“FRODO!”  
  
Kneeling in the building’s entrance, Frodo keened animal sounds, his hands batting through the empty air.  
  
“FRODO!”  
  
“Won’t stop, won’t go out, away. Everywhere, I can’t see! All around, nothing else, can’t, everywhere, can’t see - NO, SAM!”  
  
Sam hit the ground hard, the breath whooshing out of his lungs. He sat up, dazed and blinking, wondering where the hell Frodo had found the strength to shove that hard.  
  
“NO, Sam. Stay away! You can’t, won’t let you. It’ll kill you, burn you. Everywhere, Sam, don’t! No closer, Sam NO!”  
  
A tingle sprang to life on Sam’s neck, that creepy I-know-I’m being-watched- but-there’s nobody-around- that- _I_ -can-see sensation that knocked his stomach butterflies into motion. He squinted, straining to catch any flicker of movement within the monochrome mist that clutched the desolate plain closely. _Might be empty now, but if Frodo’s panicked shrieks are loud enough to be heard all the way back, back to that place of torture…_ Sam knew all it would take was one orc to be listening and then their stealth would be laid bare and wasted. _Then they would take Frodo again. Take him, torture him, use him, ra -_ Without grace or the inclination to care what he looked like, Sam scrambled up. _Won’t let them take him. Not again. Rather kill him, myself first. Got to quiet him NOW._  
  
“Frodo, love, calm down. Everything’s OK. There’s nothing wrong. Here, just let me -”  
  
Sam’s non-confrontational approach was severely slapped away.  
  
“Sam, NO! Go back, get away! Can’t, don’t you see? Fire! Flames, everywhere! NO!”  
  
Obviously a more forceful tack was needed.  
  
“Shut the hell up, Frodo! Stop screaming! There’s no fire! Do you hear me? No Fire!” He reached out to still Frodo’s flailing arms. “There’s nothing here! I’m fine, you’re fine! No fire, no -”  
  
Sam’s head snapped around, the pop resounding in his ears.  
  
“No, Sam, no! It wants you, wants to kill you! Go back, stay away! You can’t die, NO!”  
  
Nursing his sore jaw right where Frodo’s fist had squarely landed, Sam took a minute to weigh his options. That moment was brief. It was a very short list.  
  
“It knows! Understands! That’s why, why it burns! Everything will burn, all will be fire and flame, everything! The world will burn and there’s nothing –”  
  
Sam hit Frodo straight on, meaning only to capture him in a bear hug, hold him close, keep him still, calm him down. Things just didn’t turn out that way.  
  
“Oh -”  
  
The warped and faded front door gave way.  
  
“ – shit!”  
  
Not a part of his original plan, entering the building in an out of control tumble, but now that they were in, Sam quickly used this unexpected turn to their advantage by slamming the door, shutting out both fog and potential listeners.  
  
“Fuck. You scared the shit out of me.”  
  
A small alcove sheltered them now, its floor sooty and to the touch, slightly warm; the air was still and oppressive, whispering of sulphur. The concrete walls were as black as the floor and all was space-vacuum silent. The only sounds Sam’s heavy breathing and Frodo’s curses.  
  
“You didn’t have to tackle me, dickhead.”  
  
“Sorry ‘bout that.” Sam helped Frodo scoot up to lean into a corner. “But, you can consider it payback for the sucker punch.” He rubbed at his sore jaw.  
  
“I punched you?” Frodo’s sunken eyes widened in surprise. “When?”  
  
“Just outside when I tried to - never mind.” Sam knelt to tie his boots, properly this time. “You OK? To walk, I mean.”  
  
“My ass is sore, thanks to - well -” Frodo averted his eyes. “Yeah, I can walk, but where the hell to?”  
  
“Only one way I can figure, and that’s…”  
  
Step after rusty step, the metal staircase towered up and up out of the darkness, to infinity it seemed, the end concealed within a darkened orange glow that beckoned, demanded they climb to reach it.  
  
“Great. More stairs.”  
  
“You’d think,” Sam barely grunted as he helped the emaciated Frodo from the floor, “The Ultimate Evil would spring for an elevator.”  
  
“He means to cause suffering, Sam.”  
  
The collar of Frodo’s shirt blazed bright red, wet from the reopened wounds on his back, his neck, its contrast stark against the bone white of his face. Every breath racked his thin body and limbs shook with an old man’s palsy.  
  
One arm slung gingerly about Frodo’s shoulders, Sam shuffled them both toward the staircase. “Hell of a job he’s done so far, that’s for damn sure.”  
  
“For everyone, Sam.” Frodo’s fingers were ice cold on Sam’s cheek. “Not just me. Ready?” With one hand gripping the rail, the other protecting the Ring, Frodo lifted his leg, carefully placing his foot on the very bottom stop. “Here we go.”  
  
_That’s a crock of shit_ , Sam watched Frodo struggle to pull his body up, _nothing anybody has endured compares to my Frodo._ Three steps later, Sam followed. _And I’ll argue long and loud with anyone who thinks otherwise._  
  
Halfway into the first flight, Frodo paused to catch his breath.  
  
“Gonna do it, can’t stop me. Yes, yes I will! No, shut up, shut up! Almost there, almost over.”  
  
The worst pain ever inflicted impaled Sam’s heart.  
  
_But I won’t ever get that chance, will I?_  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
“You doing OK up there, Frodo?”  
  
Three flights up and still no end in sight, the orange glow was bright enough for Sam to see a weak nod.  
  
“Just let me know if you need any help.”  
  
Another exhausted nod, and Frodo pulled himself up the next step.  
  
Hovering several steps behind in case Frodo should collapse back, echoes of The Stairs only…how long…eons, his own exhausted muscles screaming in protest, Sam watched Frodo stop and rest between each one. Every few minutes or so, he would offer his help, but was refused each time.  
  
_Stubborn son of a bitch, my Frodo._  
  
On the staircase, time inexorably ticked down to the end, each second booming in Sam’s head. The nearer they climbed, the hotter the air, and if Sam thought Frodo’s breathing a bit irregular before, it was seriously erratic now. His wheezing and coughs, the rattling of every intake, echoed off the walls, a bitter compliment to the sound of feet dragging across metal. Frodo’s battle to breathe was cause for great concern, but at least it put a stop to his Ring conversation and for that, Sam was eternally grateful.  
  
Fifteen steps to each section, then a landing, where the upward climb switched back the other way. Four flights conquered now.  
  
“You OK up there, Frodo?”  
  
No nod this time, but Sam knew the answer nonetheless. Every step gained was labor, each one a victory achieved through pain.  
  
The orange light cut out Frodo’s hunched and struggling silhouette with razor edges. His body was still there, what was left of it anyway. Inside however, where Sam felt and held his love close, Frodo was all but gone, the Shadow obscuring everything. Only a tiny flame remained, like a single convenience store cardboard match held up to oblivion. And though his light was constantly besieged and buffeted, wavering at times to the merest flicker, it amazingly refused to be extinguished.  
  
_Stubborn as hell._  
  
Sam’s hands itched, ached to help, take on Frodo’s pain. But any comfort he could bring would fall woefully short of what Frodo really needed. The only answer to Frodo’s suffering lay somewhere above them.  
  
“You OK up – Frodo!”  
  
Legs finally gave up. Frodo tripped on the top step, tipping forward. Sam’s lunge saved him from a nasty fall, but could not save everything. Tangled together panting, they heard the brittle, far away tink when Frodo’s glasses hit bottom.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“OK, that settles it.” Sam stood, pulling Frodo with him. “I’m helping you.”  
  
“No fucking way! I can do this.”  
  
“But, Frodo, without your glasses, you can’t -”  
  
“I’ll feel my way, then.”  
  
His world now fuzzy, Frodo stumbled out across the landing, arms outstretched. Latching on to the railing, he smiled with victorious smugness. “See, Sam. I can do this.”  
  
“Of course you can, Frodo,” Sam shaking his head in amazement and fury, “You can do anything you want.”  
  
Their ascent slowed to beyond a crawl, Frodo’s steps hindered, both sight and body failing him now. Sam no longer hovered several steps below, but stayed just the next one down. He knew for certain he would need to move in quickly, no longer a question of if, but when.  
  
One flight, then two, Frodo felt his way up, having only a moment of disorientation on the landing when he lost the guidance of the railing. Without being too obvious, Sam gently pushed him in the right direction.  
  
“I….can…do…this.” Each word a breath torn out by the effort of climbing to the next step, “I…can…do…this.”  
  
“Sure you can, Frodo,” Sam would say softly, hand resting on the small of Frodo’s back, “Sure you can.”  
  
Sixth landing reached.  
  
“I…can…do…this.” He faltered on the third step.  
  
“Sure you can, Frodo.” Sam’s arm slipped neatly around Frodo’s waist. “Sure you can.” Slight weight crumpled back into Sam’s chest. “You can do everything.”  
  
On the seventh flight, the railing proved too hot to hold anymore. Whether Frodo realized he was moving completely under Sam’s power, he gave no indication, just continued to put one foot up, drag, then the next.  
  
“I…can…do…this.”  
  
“Yup. Just like climbing the stairs back at The Shire, when the elevator’s busted, which is most of the time.”  
  
Frodo frowned, his eyes staring blankly ahead. “The Shire?”  
  
“Your apartment building, where you, we, live. Bag End on the bottom, apartments on the top. Ours is on the fifth floor.”  
  
“I…don’t remem – I…can’t…remember!”  
  
“That’s OK, Frodo, love. I do, I remember everything.” Sam’s voice and hand attempted to soothe away Frodo’s agitation. “The steps up the back are big and clunky. Wood with the middle worn down from years of people’s stomping.”  
  
“The Shire?” A whisper only.  
  
“That’s right. We’re walking up the back steps of the Shire, and there’s the second step, the one stained with yellow when the Bracegirdle twins had that paint ball fight.”  
  
“I don’t…remember.”  
  
“The fifth one with the big gouge from the Boffin’s dropped washing machine, and the sixth one that always -”  
  
Frodo pushed Sam weakly to the left, avoiding the edge.  
  
“- squeaks when you step on that end.” Sam’s face would have been wet with tears had the searing air not burned them away. “That’s right, Frodo! That’s right! And on the ninth step? What’s on the ninth step, Frodo?”  
  
“On the ninth step…on the ninth step…is…”  
  
“Yes, Frodo, the ninth step.” Sam stopped on the landing to shift Frodo to the other side. With the railing no longer viable, he planned to use the wall to lean on instead, sliding up and taking both their weight. But, Sting hung from his left hip and it needed to be rearranged before they could continue. “On the ninth step is…?”  
  
“There is…we put…” Swaying, eyes shut, brows brought together tightly, Frodo concentrated on nothing else except that elusive memory of home. “We…I…in the wood…I…don’t - can’t!” Frustration and anger jerked him away from Sam. “Shit! It’s gone, all gone - everything - I don’t…my…life…” Knees buckling, Frodo pitched forward and Sam was there to catch. Body finally shutting down, Frodo slipped into unconsciousness.  
  
“Our initials, Frodo, that’s what’s on the ninth step.” Sam straightened out Frodo’s oddly bent legs. “You said you wanted to always be a part of The Shire. One night,” the blood from Frodo’s nose smeared as Sam tried to clear it away with the cuff of his grimy shirt, “when you were piss drunk, you dragged me out of bed and,” the part Sam’s fingers combed through matted hair made the face appear so young, “out there to the back stairs. You took a knife and right there in the wood on the ninth step you carved your initials. Then you scratched in mine,” Sam touched Frodo’s cold lips with his own, “right beside. FB and SG permanently there.” He tucked Frodo’s head under his chin. “Forever.”  
  
_“Samwise.”_  
  
Rising and falling, shallow and rapid, nestled against Frodo’s battered and sunken chest, the Ring shone its perfection in the orange light of the Cracks.  
  
“So close, so fucking close.”  
  
_“Samwise, I’m yours now.”_  
  
“Can’t end like this. Not here, not now.”  
  
_“Take me, Samwise. Just reach out and claim what you deserve.”_  
  
“What I deserve? What I _deserve_!” Salt stung eyes as Sam finally answered the Ring. “This is what I deserve!” He hugged Frodo closer. “This is all that I want!”  
  
_“Your Frodo is dead, Samwise.”_  
  
“Not dead! No!” Frantic to prove the Ring wrong, Sam brusquely swiped at Frodo’s face, searching, pleading for a response. “He’s not dead! No!”  
  
_“Take the Ring, Samwise. Claim it!”_  
  
“Never! I’m not the Ringbearer, he is!”  
  
_“Yes, you are, Samwise. Frodo was weak, Frodo failed. But, you are strong! Take it, Samwise, take up the Ring!”_  
  
“Frodo, please, Frodo, wake up!” Sam shook the limp body out of desperation, to prove it wrong, for a sign, something. “Frodo, please!”  
  
_“Reach out and take it, Samwise. You are the Ringbearer. You were destined to carry the Ring!”_  
  
“Only one Ringbearer, and it’s not me.”  
  
_“Take it, Samwise. Be the Ringbearer.”_  
  
“Frodo is - ”  
  
_“Gone. You are the Ringbearer now, Samwise.”_  
  
Frodo began to shiver, while Sam sat there drowning in sweat. “Frodo can’t do this, can’t take anymore.”  
  
_“That’s right, but you can. Claim the Ring, Samwise. Become the Ringbearer again.”_  
  
“Got to end this, end this.”  
  
_“Take the Ring!”_  
  
Sam placed a soft kiss on Frodo’s open mouth. “Got to end this, Frodo, end this now.” Sam took a deep breath, eyes locking on the Ring. “OK, you want me to take It? Fine, I’ll do it.”  
  
_“Yes, Samwise, yes!”_  
  
Grunting, Sam stood up swiftly. “I’ll take the Ring, take it just like this.”  
  
_“NO!”_  
  
“Yup, carry it this way, all the way to the fucking top!” Frodo and the Ring were safe in Sam’s arms.  
  
It did not speak to Sam again.  
  
“Way past time this was over.” Glancing up, he figured by the brightness of the orange glow and the furnace blast heat, the Cracks could not be that far away. “You ready?” Frodo didn’t reply, just lay silent before him. _Just like a bride being carried over the threshold._ Frodo was quickly moved to the fireman’s carry across Sam’s shoulder. “That’s better.” Bracing against the wall, Sam steadied Frodo and began to climb.  
  
Six flights later - _Of course, thirteen. I should have known -_ Sam finally arrived. At the top, metal flooring stretched out to a long, narrow bridge, and at the other end, a set of double doors that looked no more important than a high school cafeteria’s. This was the place, though, Sam knew for certain. Against his back, held fast by Frodo’s inert body, the Ring burned, agitated and impatient. After eons of separation, the Ring had finally returned to the place of its making.  
  
“Sorry, this homecoming won’t be of the joyous variety.” Sam paused at the top of the steps to catch his breath before tackling the long bridge, “You’re not going back to that bastard, Sauron, but into the fires of -”  
  
He smacked back onto the landing with a metallic thud, his shoulders and back screaming from every poke and edge he had caught on his tumble down the stairs. His head wouldn’t clear no matter how many times he shook it. Hallucinating, he was sure he was going crazy ‘cause of the heat or the strain or the lack of sleep, for just a second ago he was standing at the top with Frodo, and now he was sprawled on the landing right below and something was looming over him, something that looked sickeningly familiar.  
  
“You son of a -”  
  
The kick to his ribs sent Sam rolling, off the edge and hurtling down the next set of steps. Pain exploded, blacking out his vision. Didn’t see the next kick coming.  
  
“Do it right this time. We’ll make sure you’re dead this time.”  
  
A foot slammed into Sam’s face.  
  
“Kill you, then go take care of that stupid faggot.”  
  
A stomp to his kidneys.  
  
“Take my Treasure? Who the hell do you think you are, cocksucker? Huh? Nothing! That’s what! A fucking queen!”  
  
A heel came down sharply on one outstretched hand.  
  
“No one’s gonna destroy my Treasure. It’s mine! MINE!”  
  
A kick meant for the head, reared back, but never landed. A twist of the wrist, fingers latching on to an ankle, and Sam’s attacker pitched back, his balance lost, crashing into the railing. That was all the advantage needed.  
  
He didn’t care where or what he grabbed. All Sam could see was revenge.  
  
“GODDAMN YOU!” Knees held the stunned body to the hot metal, fists pounding the message home. “Fucker!” One punch followed another, blood spilling between each blow, “For the Stairs, for the Tunnel,” bone snapped, but Sam never stopped, “the spider, the orcs!”  
  
“Ppppplease!” bubbled up, weak and pathetic, “ppppplease!”  
  
“I’ll kill you, kill you!” All his weight went forward, crushing the chest harder. “He was raped! The orcs raped him because of you!” Blows made a squishing sound now. “Because of YOU!”  
  
“Bbbbut…tttthe…Tttttreasure…tttthe…Ttttreasure…”  
  
_SAMwise, SAMwise, SAMwise._  
  
In a flash, he let go, scrambling back to the other side of the landing, his clothes, hands and face splattered with Gollum’s blood.  
  
“Nnnneeds it…we wwwwants it….tttthe Tttttreasure.”  
  
_I know. I KNOW._  
  
A strange emotion nipped at Sam as he watched Gollum writhe and spit. Not remorse – each blow had been richly deserved. Not hatred, either. So degraded, he wasn’t worth the energy spent despising anymore. It was Frodo’s disintegration, his own brief stint as a Ringbearer, that gave Sam an intimate understanding of the creature who had his will stolen away. _There but for the grace…_  
  
“Go on, get out of here.”  
  
The look one of complete and unabashed shock. “Bbbbut, tttthe Tttttreasure!”  
  
_Piteous AND stupid._ “Don’t you get it? It’s over! We’re at the Cracks and Frodo – oh, fuck! Frodo!”  
  
Jumping up too fast, the world titled crazily until Sam could find the wall to hold it still. “Frodo!”  
  
“It’s mine! The Tttttreasure is mine!”  
  
“Get off me!” Lashing out, Sam kicked Gollum aside. “Frodo! Answer me!” He started off back up the steps. “Frodo!”  
  
“MINE!”  
  
Front teeth narrowly missed the step when Sam’s forward motion was halted by Gollum’s clutching hands. “Fuck, don’t you ever give up?” Pinning him by the neck, Sam pitched Gollum towards the steps. ”Go away! IT IS OVER!” He didn’t bother to watch him bounce down. “FRODO!”  
  
At the top, Frodo was nowhere to be found. Only one place for him to go. “Fuck, Frodo.” Sam dashed across the narrow bridge as fast as the pain in his back, head, legs - _Hell, my whole fucking body!_ \- would allow, and plowed through the innocuous double doors.  
  
“FRODO!”  
  
“Here, Sam.”  
  
Blinded by the intense glow of the blazing inferno, Sam stumbled forward, able only to find Frodo from within. “Did you do it? Is it done?”  
  
“The choice is made.”  
  
“NO!”  
  
Frodo’s tiny flame snuffed out.  



	19. Chapter 19

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Nineteen  


  
  
The water sloshed around, tepid and flat, doing absolutely nothing to break up the dirt coating his mouth. He spat, the color indistinguishable from the ground it splatted against. Throat dry, butt sore, soaked to the skin by the late October humidity, Eomer gave Hasufel her head, leaving her to pick at the pathetic grass while he waited for the rest to catch up.  
  
_Sounded like the way to go then. Let Gondor drive to Mordor in cushy, air conditioned Jeeps. Rohan would get there its own way. We bested that rabble of orcs – tanks notwithstanding – and our stand at the Black Gates should be made in the same fashion._  
  
Second, third and fourth thoughts about his decision nagged accusingly, though, as Eomer squinted behind Ray Bans, watching his people shuffle along on a single day’s rest, strung out across the two-lane like the beads of a snapped and discarded rosary.  
  
_One half of us that rushed south to save the day at Pelennor Fields._  
  
A trio of men – mechanical engineer, ranch hand and pediatrician – clumped by, silent and sagging in their saddles. A group of women followed, mothers all, pictures of loved ones passing between. Next in line, a gang, barely out of their teens, bodies exhibiting the exuberance of youth, expressions clouded by adult understanding. Rohan passed – neighbors and friends, co-workers and strangers – each face etched with uncertainty, but every smile to Eomer speaking of a single purpose: save Rohan.  
  
The nagging stilled.  
  
_We may be road weary and dirt encrusted, but we will stand beside Gondor, proud and unbroken._  
  
Gamling jingled by, bringing up the rear, and Eomer nudged Hasufel into motion, falling into step at his side. Black swallowed blue sky as the pair crested the final hill and gazed upon Mordor, the open field and the Gates beyond. They exchanged no words, only a firm handshake and a commiserate nod before galloping down to join the combined forces of Arda.  
  
Eomer sighed.  
  
_And may God have mercy on our souls._  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
“What I expect is simple: dominion over all. Allegiance must be paid to me only. Anything less is unacceptable.”  
  
The voice dripped with arrogance, even the flat and monotone speaker in the small security station could not mask the condescension.  
  
“What’s unacceptable is your continued existence. Leave Arda immediately, and take your minions of destruction and evil with you.”  
  
The speaker crackled with vicious laughter, zinging a chill through the group huddled just outside the Black Gates.  
  
“You always did have a warped sense of humor, Olorin. I suppose you will be the one to banish me, hmmmm?”  
  
“The army of Arda stands ready to defeat you.”  
  
“Behind these obsidian walls seethes a force twenty thousand strong, who want nothing more than to rip your puny few to shreds.”  
  
The stench of fear clogged every throat. Even the cheeks of the most stalwart among them paled.  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“Twenty thousand orcs?”  
  
“How many of us?”  
  
“Two thousand, tops.”  
  
“That’s ten to one!”  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
A glare quieted the mumbling.  
  
“Lest you forget, you were defeated once before, Sauron, by the army of Arda.”  
  
“Not defeated. Just mildly inconvenienced for a millennia or three. But, the same fluke will not, cannot happen again, no matter who you have leading your army, or what weapon he carries.”  
  
“No, you have others, stupid and expendable, to die in your stead.”  
  
“As do you, my dear Olorin. Only in your case, I would add gullible and fragile.”  
  
The monitor blipped into life.  
  
“What are they -”  
  
“The orcs have got -”  
  
“But, that looks like -”  
  
“Holy shit, they’re -”  
  
“Jesus Christ, it’s -”  
  
“FRODO!”  
  
The video stopped. Picture quality poor and grainy, but the tortured face amid grinning orcs was unmistakable.  
  
“Thank you for providing a name for our little rat of a spy. Will make future conversations much more _personal_.”  
  
“He is of no consequence to you. Bring him to me.”  
  
“I’m sorry, that won’t be possible. You see, the rat -”  
  
Frodo’s agonized screams jumped to life again.  
  
“- is rather busy at the moment. Perhaps when he no longer amuses.”  
  
“Just…turn it off…please.”  
  
The sound ceased, though, the video played on, however, an endless loop of Frodo and orcs.  
  
“Accept my terms, then limp home, Olorin. Your meddling has failed. I will defeat the army that loiters before my gates. Then one by one, every city, state and nation will fall, each insignificant life will feel the touch of my hand. The world will bleed, deep maroons and bright reds of sunsets, before I am satisfied.”  
  
“Very poetic for one who seeks only to destroy.”  
  
“There is a certain aesthetic in total destruction. Even you can see that, surely? Wiping the slate clean, rebuilding, remaking, molding and shaping the world in my image.”  
  
“All that takes time. Although Arda may fall today, the remaining peoples of the world will not accept your domination. They will fight.”  
  
“That’s what I have orcs for. And do not for one moment believe that Saruman is the only weak mind I have influenced. My voice is heard and followed by many.”  
  
“That’s not good.”  
  
“How many of those black balls are there?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Who’s he talking about?”  
  
“I bet it’s –”  
  
“SILENCE!”  
  
The vehemence of the command physically pushed the muttering group back a step, nearly cowering under the fire in the old man’s eyes.  
  
“Why wait? In fact, why are we even negotiating? You want to take, then do so. Wave your omnipotent hand out across the field and crush us all. Sweep the land and claim what you believe is yours. Do it _now_ , Mairon.”  
  
Hesitation, before the speaker oozed with feigned civility.  
  
“I plan on savoring the show, each minute detail and drop of blood. I am afforded the luxury of dilatory speed, for unlike those mortals you have taken to your bosom, Olorin –”  
  
Frodo’s image screamed to life.  
  
“- I have eternity.”  
  
Sparks crackled, glass shattered, metal and plastic gave way under the white staff thrust into the electronic guts of the monitor. The shrieks were finally silent.  
  
“We do not accept your terms. Let’s do this.”  
  
“What the fuck?”  
  
“That didn’t go well.”  
  
“That’s it?”  
  
“What about Frodo?”  
  
“Twenty thousand orcs.”  
  
“Jesus Christ!”  
  
“We can’t just leave him there!”  
  
“Nothing we can do now.”  
  
“Except die.”  
  
He ignored them all, taking long, determined strides away from the Black Gates.  
  
_He doesn’t have It, would not have wasted time talking if he possessed the prize. The Ringbearer taken, but not what he carried. Frodo caught, Frodo tortured, Frodo perhaps dead, yet the Ring remains free._  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“Slow down!”  
  
“Wait up!”  
  
“Stop!”  
  
They scrambled after, crowding about with questions, comments, concerns and complaints whirling, a cacophony, careening and colliding –  
  
“What happened back there?”  
  
“You’re going to leave it like that?”  
  
“Just playing with us.”  
  
“Twenty thousand orcs.”  
  
“Our only chance was the Ring’s destruction.”  
  
“And now with Frodo -”  
  
“What hope do we -”  
  
\- cut short by his cry.  
  
“Hope? There is always hope!”  
  
Abruptly halted, he turned to regard each face.  
  
“NEVER doubt, never!  Eru Illuvatar’s gift has not forsaken Arda. Hope still remains. Now, let’s go honor Frodo’s sacrifice.”  
  
His march away resumed.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Cryptic as usual.”  
  
“Then Frodo is really…?”  
  
“Twenty thousand orcs!”  
  
“Hope remains? What hope?”  
  
Gandalf smiled.  
  
_Samwise._  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
He ran through it again.  
  
_Bow strung and oiled? Check. Quiver full? Check. Daggers securely and properly housed? Check. Sunscreen liberally applied to face, hands and neck? Check._  
  
He was ready.  
  
_Well, almost._  
  
He had attempted mediation – one must before engaging in hand-to-hand carnage – but peace remained elusive. The twins had found their calm, Elladan and Elohir standing apart, quiet, in communion together. Yet, on a field crammed with thousands of petrified mortals, his chi summarily refused to center. He stood now on the sidelines, away from the raunchy jokes and whispered goodbyes uncharacteristically uneasy, just watching the stew simmer.  
  
This army of Arda a study in contrasts. One group, thinking they were so careful hiding behind Rohan’s forces, smoked pot to calm nerves, the pungent and unmistakable aroma giving them away. Another bunch pushed a young man with raucous taunts to ‘Go ahead and kiss her, you twat!’ urging him to partake before the chance was forever stolen from him by an orc’s bullet. A large gathering knelt somberly while a priest blessed the cup, passing out an eternal peace through the agency of cheap wine.  
  
Legolas longed to still his own disquiet, but knew none of those activities would bring calm; solace would not be achieved through mind numbing drugs, cheap thrills or empty ritual.  
  
“Think there’s anything to that?”  
  
_He always finds me when I wish to be alone. A singularly annoying habit._  
  
“Beg pardon?”  
  
Accepting the question as an invitation to join his friend, Gimli indicated the priest handing out his final blessing. “I mean, when we go. An afterlife and all that. You believe?”  
  
The tall tales of faith lectured at his father’s knee had many years ago been usurped by hard science. No room for a blissful eternity in his well-ordered mind.  
  
_Then why are you dreaming constantly of beautiful gardens, soft breezes, music and the sea?_  
  
“The Halls.”  
  
“The what?”  
  
“The Halls of Mandos. That’s where the spirits of my kin exist should life here on Arda cease. There is communion with all to be found there.”  
  
“So friends and family are together, like some kind of block party.”  
  
Legolas attempted to picture that –  
  
_Graceful and ethereal, strolling calmly, thoughts and mind at peace, eating polish sausage and drinking domestic beer while “Do That Funky Thing, White Boy” blares out distorted from cheap speakers propped in a second story window._  
  
\- and it brought him a much needed chuckle. “Only more subdued.”  
  
“Always envisioned lots of clouds and stuff, like in those cream cheese commercials. Clouds and no pain, worry or sadness.”  
  
The priest spoke individually to his impromptu congregation; a hug for comfort, a kiss for encouragement, a prayer for strength.  
  
“You’ve never spoken of this before. Are you concerned now?”  
  
“Well, considering where we are and what we’re about to face – twenty thousand orcs, for Christ’s sake! – just thought it prudent, if a little late.”  
  
“Then you believe you will fall today?”  
  
A hard stare towards the Black Gates. “Yeah, yeah I do.”  
  
That idea - Gimli dying – was one he suddenly preferred not to contemplate. “No, that will not happen.”  
  
“Not my first choice, either, believe me.”  
  
“I will do all that is within my power, bring all my expertise to bear, to ensure that you don’t.”  
  
The vehement promise startled Gimli for a moment. “Well, um, in other words, you’ve got my back.”  
  
“Sounds less noble in the vernacular, but, yes, I’ve got your back.”  
  
“And you can consider yours covered, too.”  
  
An ear piercing screech snapped their attention down the field where Aragorn stood with Halbarad, the overture to a speech apparently.  
  
“Well, for you, those Halls have one definite advantage over my clouds.”  
  
“Army of Arda, I wish to say…”  
  
Legolas spoke through Aragorn’s pregnant pause. “And what would that be?”  
  
“Haldir. You two will be together again.”

_As one, until our return to – will there be a world for us to -_  
  
“That is, I need to tell you…”  
  
“And now that I know he’s not an arrogant prick, I might drop on over. I wouldn’t mind sitting and sharing a cup of coffee with you guys.”  
  
He didn’t think The Halls worked that way, not for mortals, but Legolas was enjoying the vision of Haldir’s face sitting across a table from Gimli too much to correct his friend.  
  
“I need you to listen…”  
  
“Imagine that, you and me spending eternity communing.”  
  
Legolas chuckled.  
  
_Yes, together. Eternity across the sea._  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
“If everyone would listen up for just a moment -”  
  
His thumb, slick with sweat, slipped off the bullhorn’s trigger, silencing his clumsy speech.  
  
_OK, Estel, get a grip. You did the Dead Army and the healing thing. Even looked into the Palantir and confronted Sauron. Giving a little pep talk should be a breeze!_  
  
But, it wasn’t the _talking_ part that was causing tongue to swell and legs to turn the consistency of Jell-o. It was the _to whom._  
  
_All those people. Thousands of eyes staring at me._  
  
He swallowed back the bile that jumped into his throat.  
  
_Breathe, nice and slow, in and out, just like Miss Edwards taught you._  
  
After he’d passed out during a book report and subsequently taking out a desk with his forehead on his way down – a source of great amusement for his peers for the next few months – his English teacher had taken it upon herself to tutor her scared pupil in some tricks to overcoming his stage fright. Deep, slow and steadying breathing was the first.  
  
_In and out, in and out._  
  
He went down her list, mentally ticking off each one. _Look just over their heads at the back wall._ No back wall, only black cloud. _Clear your mind of the reason you are there and concentrate on what you are saying._ The forces of evil chose that moment to blare sirens announcing the opening of the Black Gates. _Next, try –_  
  
“Buddy, the masses are getting restless. You better say something.”  
  
“I know, I know!”  
  
_Grip an object, something solid that you find familiar and comforting. This will ground you._ The metal sword hilt pressed next to his thigh, Magnum tucked to the small of his back. _And when all else fails –_  
  
Halbarad took the bullhorn away. “Strider, calm down! They won’t bite.”  
  
_Bite? I didn’t even think about that possibility. Booing, laughing, throwing rotten vegetables, yes, but biting?_ Now _I’m thinking about it though!_  
  
“Try my little trick. Just picture everyone in their underwear. Nobody can be taken seriously in just underwear.”  
  
_You’ve never seen Arwen in her Victoria’s Secret, page 17._  
  
“Or you could just turn around and lead the charge.”  
  
“No, I’ve got to say something. Calm them, reassure them. My god, it’s tangible, radiating off -”  
  
_“Elessar…”_

That voice familiar, that voice from the seeing stone, the voice of…

The warning sequence complete, the Black Gates silently slipped open, revealing an ever widening glimpse into hell.  
  
“Well, if you’re going to inspire, it better be now. Gonna lose your audience pretty soon. Literally.”  
  
_It’s Him. Despite those protestations to the contrary. Overpowering, blinding, choking. The fear,_ His _fear. He is afraid of us._

_“…you should not have come.”_  
_  
He is afraid of_ me.  
  
He snatched the bullhorn back.  
  
_And when all else fails…channel the Bard._  
  
Aragorn coughed.  
  
_Once more, dear friends, unto the breech._

  
*****  
  
  
  
  
Steve looked at Scott  
  
“Did he just say what I think he said?”  
  
“That we can leave, no questions asked?”  
  
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”  
  
“Take him up on his offer?”  
  
Scott and Steve backed away.  
  
“Damn straight.”  
  
A rumble. A far off, other-side-of-town, empty-hours-of-a-lonely-night rumble pushed out across the plain. And just like the unconscious-in-bed, just-about-asleep childhood memory, the sound gathered speed and drive, rushing headlong until that train screamed, rending the fear-saturated air, bursting ear drums, tearing answering shrieks from the throats of all who waited at its destination.  
  
“Look at that!”  
  
Scott snatched at Steve.  
  
“What the hell is he doing?”  
  
Steve and Scott stopped in their tracks.  
  
A leader. Valiant, swift and obviously crazy charged forward to greet that locomotive. Sword drawn, unbowed, unrelenting – his own action bringing to life those words of bravery and solidarity - Aragorn led the assault against Sauron’s unbeatable army alone.  
  
His solitary stand quickly evaporated as one, three, ten then twenty joined in, the numbers growing too quickly to count. Gondor shouldered next to Rohan, executive stood by clerk, man with woman. The free peoples moved forward as one. The army of Arda was on the attack.  
  
Dead eyes, filled only with loathing and murder, emerged from the run away train. Rabid desire leaked from rotting mouths; bones snapped, flesh ripped, bile spurted in the frenzy to be the one to draw first blood. Sauron’s minions rampaged forward.  
  
Two immovable forces clashed together, even the ground beneath trembling. The final battle had begun.  
  
Light against dark, man mixed with orc, a swirling maelstrom of blade and bullet, clenched in a tight embrace. Arms, fists, right and wrong, bullied and danced in tandem. A burst of silver, a peek of pale yellow, dung brown, cool green, grey metal twisted and bobbed, gutted, gouged, swung and sliced, ruptured, ripped through sinew and bone. An enemy fell to the sharp sting of an arrow, three jumped in to fill in the gap. Trampled, packed deep into blood-russet mud, a faceless friend lay unrecognized. Weary arms slashed, raw knuckles hit their mark. Grey and smoke and red and pain and stench, the death struggle never ceasing. Courage snarled a student’s face as she cut down an orc at point blank range. Strength of will buoyed a security guard’s strangling hands. Sorrow scratched permanent furrows as a husband watched wife eviscerated only an arm’s length away. Overwhelmed, inundated, spent weapons becoming clubs. Surrounded, undermanned, final goodbyes became a luxury.  
  
But, hope sang to all from the flash of bright steel, a glimpse of twirling white.  
  
Above it all, a shout was raised. The black, oppressive clouds of Mordor could never squelch its clear, sharp song scything through the guttural barkings of the foe. Whether grunted and screamed, or shouted and wept, the call was unmistakable. The choir was the Army of Arda - every Scott and Steve, every man or woman with voice enough to frame defiance in their invocation.  
  
“For Frodo! FOR FREEDOM!”  
  
  
  
  
*****

 

  
_Well, isn’t this just fucking fantastic. Squashed - cockroach style._  
  
Squirming just sucked Pippin further into the mire.  
  
_Ugliest damn thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen ugly._  
  
Cool slime slipped into his ear when he tilted his head to the right.  
  
_Take that, for example._  
  
Black and empty, the eyes just stared.  
  
_Body’s got to be around here somewhere, I suppose._  
  
The severed head, its black mouth a permanent grimace, was held upright a few scant inches from his face by the blood-saturated mud. He watched another orc splatter to the ground, throat sliced, body still twitching.  
  
_Just me and the orcs, my good buddies, lying around watching the world go by._  
  
Pippin laughed until his sides cramped, until the muscles in his face ached, until his vision blurred.  
  
_One hell of mess, me playing hero, thinking I could be a soldier, make a difference. Can hardly breathe, boxers full of mud, pinned by some lumbering freak of nature. Some difference I made._  
  
He had watched it all happen, every gory detail splaying across the field of battle like the slow motion scene in some epic movie, unable to reconnect with his body, to shout a warning, or even stop himself from acting. He had been an observer only, silent witness to his own misguided deed.  
  
_Seemed like a good idea at the time._  
  
It was there - _giant, monster, troll?_ \- battering what used to be a human body repeatedly and Pippin didn’t stop to think. He just did. Rushing forward, his remaining bullets ripped into the creature, a straight line perforating moldy skin, then the quickly snatched up sword, useless to the limp hand that still held it, he thrust deep, crossing the ‘T’ he had carved on the monster’s vile back.  
  
_At least my aim was true._  
  
But, that had left feet dangling off the ground as the giant swayed forward in a vain attempt to outdistance the sudden, biting pain. Inexplicably, Pippin’s hands refused to relinquish the sword and as the thing lost balance, tipping and swaying, he rode the monstrous roller coaster back to Earth when gravity took its ordained course, the thing’s dying breath a pitiful, confused whimper. And beneath the quickly cooling corpse, Pippin lay trapped, the final battle flaming on without him.  
  
_I’m trapped. Can’t see out, means no one can’t see in either. They won’t find me. I’ll be left here, left behind. They’ll all leave and I’ll be stuck here, my ass buried in mud, my body forgotten. Won’t find me, not like this. All they’ll see is It, this fucking troll thing, a huge corpse with me completely hidden underneath. They’ll leave and I’ll be stuck. The sun will come out and vultures will fly in to peck and eat and the body will bloat and I’ll be here. It’s gonna start decomposing, the stink and melting flesh dripping down and I’ll be lost, unnoticeable, just a part of the decaying mass, nothing but rot, nothing left of me._  
  
Driven by real fear and panic, Pippin shoved against the dead thing’s bulk. Arms already strained to their limit, he was hell bent on not being passed over when the sweep of the dead started. Even the loss of feeling in his legs did not hinder or deter him. He wasn’t going to be left to rot. His frenzied scrabble to be included on the causality list drained already empty reserves, but did manage to bring his body up a little, his chest escaping the dead weight of the beast.  
  
_Oh, god! That’s so good! Smells horrible, but, air, air, AIR! So sweet!_  
  
A Herculean task to master now, all concentration centered on breathing, a jagged cadence of in and out. And afraid that he wouldn’t have enough strength to pull his eyes back open, he resolved never to blink again.  
  
_Just stare straight up, watch those big thunder boomer clouds above jockey for position in the dark sky. Just watch…wait…and regret. Never bought that Porsche. Never went to visit the ancestors in Scotland. Wait and miss. Sunday dinners, all night bullshit sessions, clean sheets, HBO. Wait, and count the little dots streaming across, leaving trails of white. Looks just like when my Granddaddy took me over to the base’s air field to see…Blue...Wait and dream. Of no more orcs, or blood and mud and…mom’s smile, Nana Banks’ grits and…Gerbil’s… dream of Frodo and Sam together and alive. Wait and remember Merry. His smile, his voice, his skin, his taste, his – fuck! Black Hawk just went up in flames.  
  
Now I got something else to watch - tiny fiery bits falling to the ground, adding orange to the sea of red and brown. But something’s wrong, can’t really see so good anymore, all dark and fuzzy around the edges, and I guess I’m starting to lose it ‘cause I can’t be hearing what I think I’m hearing ‘cause that just wouldn’t make sense, not here, not now, but more stuff is falling and burning and orcs and people are running around screaming and shouting and a big loud whoosh just went by and maybe I’m not going crazy ‘cause I remember that sound, remember it like it was yesterday and if it’s what I think it is then maybe, just maybe…_  
  
Pippin grinned.  
  
_The Eagles are coming!_

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

 

**The Ring Unmade  
** Chapter Twenty  


  
  
“It looks like rain, doesn’t it?”  
  
One minute, heat and flame, the next AC breezing the hint of dust and paper.  
  
“If you’re going out, don’t forget the milk. We’ll need it come breakfast.”  
  
Self Help on the left side, Haute Cuisine recipes on the other.  
  
“What about we order in tonight? Chinese, or Thai maybe?”  
  
The push button antique register commanded the front counter; the oatmeal-raisin muffins and cinnamon cappuccino enticed loitering on the overstuffed couches. Art Deco lamps softened the already round edges of shelf and frame, the walls reaching out to a ceiling adorned with entwined branches, lush leaves and delicate flowers. The air bristled with echoes of old spun tales and the promise of new ones just waiting to enthrall all those who took the journey through the green front door. Welcoming, inviting, intriguing. Cluttered, used and loved.  
  
_Bag End._  
  
“Frodo?”  
  
Standing there by the Romance section in a misshapen olive drab sweater vest, its shiny buttons dangling loose, and his hands stuffed in khakis with scuffed Hush Puppies sneaking out below, his usual convivial smile dropped to a frown.  
  
_Bilbo._  
  
“Is something wrong, Frodo?”  
  
When a sip of grimy water or a snatch of dreamless sleep might have been enough to tempt him, this miracle was gifted.  
  
Frodo was home.  
  
“You’re starting to worry me here, Frodo. Say something.”  
  
Except miracles did not exist anymore. Nothing did except pain, despair, blood, hate and the death he knew was coming.  
  
“Nice try.”  
  
“Frodo, don’t walk away when I’m talking to you.”  
  
Beneath Frodo’s trailing fingers, the bestsellers were solid, the carpet smooshed comfortingly under his retreating sneakers.  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Frodo Baggins, watch your language! This is a family friendly place, and I -”  
  
“Shut UP! Just shut the hell up!” Frodo stopped, wheeling around to confront that comforting face. “Just how stupid do you think I am, huh? I know what’s going on. I know what you’re trying to do to me. I know!”  
  
“What do you think you know, Frodo?”  
  
“What the hell is happening, why I’m here.” _Here where I’m safe, where I’m not the chosen, not the Ringbearer. Here where I’m just Frodo._ “Show me a good memory, dangle home in front of me, give me a glimpse of what I’ve lost and you think I’ll fall all over myself, willing to do anything to get it all back. Well, you’re fucking wrong!” Frodo headed to the green front door. “Not playing this game anymore.”  
  
“Game, you say? Alright, Frodo Baggins, let’s play a game.”  
  
“I said fuck off,” Frodo snarled and toppled the neat pyramid of the popular C.S. Lewis series off the front counter as he passed. “Not going to listen to you anymore.”  
  
“Oh, you _will_ listen, Frodo. Now, our conversation can either be pleasant -”  
  
Frodo sank into the billowy soft sheets of Rivendell.  
  
“- or painful.”  
  
A black mouth, full of broken teeth, gnawed his cock whole.  
  
“It all depends on you.”  
  
Slipping down to the floor, Frodo drew his body in tight. Miles past exhausted, every inch of his body in pain, he strove to grasp, to find and to hold a piece, a scrap, a shred of something – anything – that was still him. A single note – weak, but constant – whispered amid the empty, and Frodo clutched it, and the hope of which it sang, desperately to his heart. “What the hell do you want from me?”  
  
Bilbo _tsked_ in that amiable way of his. “I thought I’ve made that abundantly clear by now, Frodo. Claim the Ring.”  
  
“No, no I won’t.” Frodo’s protest was muffled by knees. “I don’t want the Ring.”  
  
“Everyone has his price.” Bilbo smiled. “I have only to find it.”  
  
Crisp greens and blues and the snow’s starched white pierced Frodo’s eyes as he stood on the mountain top precipice, the earth spread out below.  
  
_“I can give you the world!”_  
  
“All this time in my head and you still don’t get it!” Shout jerking back from the edge, voice nearly whisked away on the wind, “I don’t want all this! Never have, never will!”  
  
“No, perhaps you don’t. Your dreams stick closer to home, don’t they, lad?”  
  
Tomato soup steamed from the mug in his hand. Snuggled deep in the corner of the couch, covered to the chin in blankets, Frodo watched Bilbo poke at the burning logs bringing them to life.  
  
“Bag End didn’t work, so you thought you’d try my apartment, is that it?” The mug crashed to the floor, a red stain spreading across the wood. Savagely thrown blankets formed a tumbled heap at the other end of the couch. “Not real! None of this will ever be real!”  
  
“It could be, it _will_ be. Take the Ring, Frodo. Make it real.”  
  
“Make it real?” Across to the fireplace in three quick strides, Frodo snatched Bilbo’s frumpy cardigan in his fists. “Nothing is real except the fire. Pain and blood and death. That’s _real_. Bag End, you – are not!”  
  
_“Reality? That’s what you want, Frodo Baggins?”_  
  
Heat seared up from the flames, boiling through his flesh. Slowly, Frodo sank into the molten rock, anguished cries burned away.  
  
_“Reality is mine to command.”_  
  
Frodo stood in the doorway and watched his Sam climax, slamming deep, rhythmically pounding the body sprawled and open on the fuck mangled sheets.  
  
“Reality could be yours to _make_ , Frodo.” Rosie smiled, lips cock-sucking red. “Take the Ring.”  
  
“Reality is THIS!”  
  
Frodo leaned out over the Cracks as far as he could with the fiery metal burning his stomach. His sneakers hanging off now, he tipped forward, and his hand snatched the chain from his bleeding neck.  
  
“The Ring in the fire. That is the _only_ reality.”  
  
The heat blasting from the wound in the earth’s surface devoured sweat and tears, all moisture gone. Frodo refused to blink, though, to bring that millisecond comfort to his bloodshot eyes. He refused to tear his gaze away for even that briefest of moments from what dangled in mid-air. The Ring, kept from obliteration in the essence of the world’s violent birth, by his weak and shaking fingers.  
  
“Got to destroy this fucking thing right now!”  
  
He watched it swing, twisting and twirling, on the loop of the chain. The orange-yellow glow caught the elegance of its eternal design. Sparkles chased around the edges, a dance within the perpetual shape, ever beginning, never ending.  
  
“It ends here.”  
  
He need only open his fist, relax the rigor mortis grip on the chain and it would finally slip down his palm, slide away from his fingertips to simply fall, coasting on the blistering breeze to plunge into the liquid fire below. All he needed to do was relinquish the Ring, and all would be over.  
  
“ _We_ end now.”  
  
Carried against his heart, Frodo had always understood that he and the Ring would burn from existence together.  
  
“No more Ring, no more Ringbearer.”  
  
_“Your death need not be inevitable, Frodo."_  
  
“It is the only reality.”  
  
“Reality is such a subjective thing, the truth mutable. Neither is a finite construct, Frodo.”  
  
The sky, velvet black straight overhead, washed-out neon bright along the edges, the clatter of traffic a constant intruder. But, the scent of freshly soaked soil and three twining varieties of roses, helped maintain the illusion of a country garden, and not merely a rooftop in the city that never sleeps.  
  
“So, it’s philosophy now, huh?” Frodo nearly sobbed at the sensation of cool grass between his toes. “Any reality the Ring created would be evil.”  
  
“Think on it, though.” Gandalf exhaled, rum-scented smoke blurring about his head, “You could use it to your advantage.”  
  
“Evil begets evil. Period.”  
  
“Sometimes evil is a good thing, Frodo. For example: one cannot exist without the other. Black and white. Right and wrong. The cosmic scales must remain in balance.”  
  
“This is such bullshit.” Frodo turned away from the lounge chairs, shutting his professor out.  
  
“Oh, come now, Frodo, don’t tell me there is no need for a little evil in your life.”  
  
“You’re fucking nuts!”  
  
“A powerful ally, evil, when it comes to exacting revenge.” A tiny fire flared in the bowl of the pipe. “And revenge is so sweet when meted out with an omnipotent hand.”  
  
“Don’t want that.” A lilting breeze fingered through Frodo’s hair, carrying with it memories of his adopted city. The brick scratched comfort to his palms lying flat against the ledge, the incessant roar of life below symphonic in its discord. Even the pungent odor of the East River filled his senses with joy. “Don’t want that ever.” What Frodo _did_ want was to stay in this bastardized version of his life just a moment longer, a few more seconds, just long enough to ease a scrap of his soul, regain a taste of peace. That he was actually contemplating taking solace from what the Ring promised caused self-loathing to bubble up, choking his throat. “I don’t want revenge.”  
  
“Now who’s playing games?” Gandalf chuckled. “Have you forgotten? I’ve seen, I _know_ your heart, Frodo Baggins. Darkness seethes there.”  
  
“So what? I’ve got a few issues. Big fucking deal.”  
  
“Use that hatred. Exact revenge. Take the Ring.”  
  
“No…no.”  
  
“The Ring will make it happen, Frodo. Strike back!”  
  
“I don’t _want_ revenge!”  
  
“Not even against those who wronged you? Hurt you, humiliated you? You don’t want revenge against those who should have cared for you?”  
  
Twleve year old Frodo stood on the sidewalk, the contents of his life – three boxes and a beat up suitcase - huddled about his feet.  
  
“We don’t want you. Nobody loves you. Get out, go away! Weirdo! Psycho! Pervert!” His cousins shouted from the perfect American porch while his aunt and uncle signed the papers, giving him away, tossing him aside. Again.  
  
“All those doctors who talked down, around, through you.” Galadriel’s pencil never stopped ticking, the leather couch sucking onto Frodo’s clammy teenaged skin. “Therapists who dismissed and ignored.”  
  
“The men who vowed to protect you.” Boromir licked Frodo’s broken and bleeding lips, the brick of the alley wall cutting into his back.  
  
“The ones who delivered you into my hands.” The Screamer/Puncher/Failure pummeled Frodo’s violated body as orcs cackled in the shadows.  
  
“Get off me! Stop! Not again! NO! I don’t want, don’t need revenge! Fucking stop! Please!”  
  
_“No revenge? Pity. Would have been so delicious.”_  
  
“Just stop! Please!”  
  
“Is this more to your liking, Frodo Baggins?”  
  
The chamber was silent and somber, heavy with import. Here, Elrond’s perpetual frown seemed appropriate.  
  
“This is a fucking joke, right?”  
  
“No, Frodo. Not if you wish it.”  
  
“The Supreme Court?”  
  
“Come and take your place, Frodo Baggins.”  
  
“The Supreme fucking Court!” The wood thrummed under his shaky fingertips, with history, precedence. The highest bench of law in the land was being offered to him.  
  
“You will preside over the most important cases. Use your compassion and insight to fight for the rights of all.”  
  
Every lawyer’s dream and it was his for the taking.  
  
“Imminent Domain, the First Amendment, death penalty, abortion.”  
  
The black robe of high office slipped around Frodo’s shoulders – a perfect fit.  
  
“Immigration, euthanasia, LGBTQ equality.”  
  
He traced the letters of the placard slipped cozily into its slot. “Frodo Baggins, Chief Justice.” With eyes closed, Frodo breathed in all the possibilities. “I could do so much good here.”  
  
“Indeed, Frodo Baggins. You will be the champion of the Constitution. Make history. Take the Ring.”  
  
Fingers abandoned the name plate, the robe tumbled to the floor. “No, I can’t do this. No!”  
  
Elrond’s eyes blazed, two hot coals beneath deeply furrowed brows. “You are going to turn your back on this opportunity to give the disenfranchised a voice?”  
  
Frodo stumbled away from the bench, appalled at how close he had come to listening. “Not this way, no!”  
  
“You’re a fool, Frodo Baggins!” Elrond’s shouts echoed within the chamber, sliding off the walls and Frodo’s retreating back.  
  
“But, not enough of one to take the Ring, no matter the cause. Too much, too fucking much!”  
  
“Then something a little more low key, perhaps?”  
  
Small and intimate, the room smelled of chalk and old books. Piled high with stacks of papers and journals, a huge wooden desk staked its claim before the blackboard, the words “Contract Law” scrawled across the broken-in surface. Six rows of desks sat empty, anticipating the next group of blank slates.  
  
“This is where it happens, Frodo. The beginning. Empty minds, like little sponges just waiting to soak up every word, each kernel of knowledge. The future is here.”  
  
Stepping in the door, his sneakers made tiny squeaks against the polished wood of the floor. A lifetime, it seemed, since Frodo had entered a classroom, that bastion of higher learning, one of the few places that had accepted him unconditionally. Grabbing the first book off the nearest shelf – Income Tax Codes: 1998 – Frodo took a resonant whiff of the dusty pages. “God, that smells fucking fantastic!”  
  
“Ah, yes. The unmistakable aroma of bureaucracy.”  
  
“This is Professor Miller’s room. And I sit right over there.” He pointed to the very back row. “Fall asleep damn near every day.”  
  
“Yes, well, it’s your turn now, Frodo. Do try to enlighten them before they nod off.”  
  
“And Merry sits in front of - Hey!” He wiggled through the rows to kneel and peer under a desk. “I wonder if it’s still here. Those notes that Merry wrote last - what did you say?”  
  
“I certainly hope you have your lecture prepared for today for class begins in five minutes.”  
  
“I don’t, uh, you mean, uh, I’m teaching?” The desk squeaked when Frodo collapsed into the plastic seat. “I’m a Columbia professor now?”  
  
“ _Assistant_ professor, Frodo.” Gandalf corrected with a frown. “Full professorship must be earned. Class in four minutes.”  
  
“But, how -” He shook the stunned fuzzies out of his head. “How the hell can I teach Contract Law when I haven’t even finished the class yet?”  
  
“Would you prefer another subject?”  
  
Several desks went askew as Frodo blundered to the front. “I’m only a second year student, I’m not qualified to teach -”  
  
“Art, literature, quantum mechanics.” Gandalf loaded textbooks in Frodo’s arms. “French. Physics. Cardio-Thoracic techniques.”  
  
“Surgery?” Frodo gulped, straining under the weight of Columbia’s diverse curriculum, “You expect me to teach _surgical_ techniques?”  
  
Gandalf peered down over the stack. “You can teach anything you like, Frodo Baggins. Any subject, any university. Just take the Ring.”  
  
The books fell onto polished wood in one echoing thud.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Take the Ring, Frodo.”  
  
“Don’t want to be a professor.”  
  
“ _Assistant_ professor.”  
  
“Whatever!” The books were scattered by Frodo’s savage kick. “I don’t want this! ANY of this, what you have to offer!”  
  
“Well, Frodo,” Gandalf calmly crossed his arms, looking over the top of his reading glasses, “What do you want?”  
  
“My life! MY life! No more Quest, no more voice. Don’t want this burden, don’t want responsibilities. I just want to be ME!”  
  
“Pass me another, would you?”  
  
The music thumped, swirling lights caught the cigarette haze in alternating tableaus of green and red. The Prancing Pony’s dance floor was a mass of hot sweaty bodies, moving and grinding, and Frodo soaked up the overpowering stench of sex.  
  
“This DJ is fucking fantastic!” A shout in Frodo’s face, Merry’s whisky breath sharp enough to bring tears. “Plays one goddamn great tune after another!”  
  
An extended pull on the beer Merry had just shoved in his hand, the fermented nectar slithering down to ease his parched throat and Frodo felt his burden ease. He fished out his pack of Malboro Lights and Zippo, only fitting to have one in a place like this. Nicotine floated through his head, sending his smile buzzy. “Now this is fucking more like it!” No fate of the world around his neck, no worries. Here only music and beer and flashing lights and frantic motion and -  
  
“Where’s Sam?”  
  
“Come on!” Pippin tugged insistently, “Dance with me, Frodo!”  
  
“But, where’s Sam?” He searched the bar, eager to spot the one he adored.  
  
“Doesn’t matter, let’s dance!”  
  
Pippin dragged him straight to the middle of the floor, to the center of the undulating pack, Merry at his heels.  
  
“Dance with me, Frodo.”  
  
Hips crushed into his groin.  
  
“What are you -?” Frodo backed away, right into Merry.  
  
“Dance with _us_.”  
  
“I don’t think this is such a good idea.” Frodo squirmed to be free, but that started the grinding from behind and the moaning in front. “Besides, I thought you guys were -”  
  
“We are.” Merry leaned forward to lock lips with Pippin. The sloppy sound dripped loud in Frodo’s ear.  
  
“Shit, guys!”  
  
Merry broke the kiss with a POP! then took their combined spit on a trip up Frodo’s jaw. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun with our best buddy, does it?”  
  
“This isn’t what I wanted!” He slapped away Pippin’s fly groping. “This isn’t my life!”  
  
“It’s better, don’t you think?” Cupping his ass, Merry squeezed Frodo hard. “No responsibilities, no expectations. Only music and freedom.”  
  
“No, no, I sure as hell don’t! Don’t want this! I want _my_ life, I want my Sam!”  
  
“Sorry, dude, no Sam.”  
  
“What, he’s not here, didn’t come with us, he’s at home, working, what?” Under the lights, the bass, the rhythm of the bodies all around him, Frodo was on sensory overload. Sharp elbows jabbing, cheap cologne stinking, he was assaulted with noise and motion. “Where the hell is Sam?”  
  
A yank and Frodo was trapped once again against Merry. “No, I mean, there’s no Sam anywhere. He doesn’t exist. Never did, never will. It’s just you, and me and Pip,” who went for Frodo’s fly again, “and the Ring.”  
  
“Don’t say that! Don’t fucking say that!” He twisted out of Merry’s grasp, shoved Pippin back. “I know Sam is here, he’s always here, I’m never alone, I can hear -”  
  
Only he couldn’t anymore.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
Crowding in, smothering up, blocking out, the pulsing rhythm within the club kept Sam’s music hidden.  
  
“Got to get out, get the fuck out of here!”  
  
They wouldn’t move. The dancers stood in his way, staring and sneering as he pushed out from the middle.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
Too much noise, too many sounds. The rap song, the chatter, the lewd shouts from Merry and Pippin drowning out -  
  
“Out, out, got to get OUT!”  
  
He shoved and bullied, neither caring nor pausing for curses or blows received.  
  
“Goddammit! Get the fuck out of my way!”  
  
He needed that music, needed his Sam to sing. The only thing Frodo had to hold on to, the only thing the Ring had not corrupted.  
  
_Get away, get out. Off the floor, out of here, away. Then Sam will return to me, I’ll get Sam’s music back._  
  
A few well placed fists forced an opening to appear. Scratching out from the huddled mass, Frodo pinballed towards the front. No comfort, no strength blanketed Frodo. Where Sam’s music should be soothing, a primitive beat pounded.  
  
_Get out, outside! Outside, Frodo, outside! Sam!_  
  
The heavy front door put up little resistance when he flung his body forward, swinging open, depositing an hysterical Frodo on the filthy sidewalk.  
  
“Sam! Sam! SAM!”  
  
He still wasn’t singing. New York was instead.  
  
“NO! NO!”  
  
Sirens and trucks and jackhammers and boom boxes. That’s all Frodo could hear. People talking and laughing and shouting, life teeming about him. Not one note of music -  
  
“SAM!”  
  
“Take the Ring, Frodo,” Bilbo called from the sidewalk.  
  
“Don’t screw this up. Take the Ring,” Boromir snapped from a hot dog stand queue.  
  
“Leave me alone! Sam!”  
  
Sipping a mimosa at a chic café, Gandalf offered his advice. “Take the Ring, Frodo.”  
  
Aragorn shouted from a shadowed alleyway. “Take the Ring!”  
  
Legolas paused his cell phone conversation, Gimli grunted, peeking out from a man hole. “Take the Ring!”  
  
Hands covered his ears, head ducked down, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Shut up, shut up, SHUT THE FUCK UP!” running mindlessly through traffic, crazy drivers laying on their horns, Frodo tried to out run the emptiness.  
  
Galadriel and Celeborn said from a limo window, “Take the Ring, Frodo!”  
  
“Take the Ring, Frodo!” Merry and Pippin cat-called from the fire escape.  
  
He didn’t know where to go, which street to turn on, what path to take, how to escape. He had to find it – quiet, silence, he had to find it, he had to find Sam.  
  
“Take the Ring, Frodo!”  
  
“The Ring!”  
  
“Frodo, Claim it”  
  
“The Ring, Frodo, the Ring!”  
  
“SAM! SAM!”  
  
The signs flashed ‘Take the Ring!’ Street vendors chanted, ‘Take the Ring!’ Cabbies in broken English cursed at him. 'Take the Ring!' Standing in the midst of Times Square, everyone screamed at Frodo.  
  
“Take the Ring!”  
  
“Just shut up, please, _please_ shut up!”  
  
Traffic whizzed by, every station tuned to ‘Take the Ring!’ Buses belched, their signs reading, ‘Take the Ring!’  
  
“Can’t hear, shut up!” Frodo howled, stumbling first one way -  
  
– cops and dog walkers and crack heads, ‘Take the Ring!’-  
  
“Sam!” - then another –  
  
\- old and thin and rich and homeless, ‘Take the Ring!’ The street crowded in on him -  
  
“SHUT UP, SHUT UP, PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP!”  
  
Bilbo and Gandalf and Aragorn and Elrond, ‘Take the Ring!’  
  
“WANT TO HEAR, CAN’T HEAR, JUST LET ME ALONE!”  
  
Merry and Pippin and Boromir and Faramir and Legolas and Gimli, ‘Take the Ring!’  
  
On his knees in the middle of the street, Frodo begged, “PLEASE, LET ME HEAR MY SAM!”  
  
“All the money you could ever want” from the subway, “Fame, everyone will know your face” out of a third story window, “Power to create and destroy,” in a carriage, “Sex, hundreds, thousands of beautiful bodies, all lusting for you!” a moped scooting past.  
  
Nowhere to go, no place to escape.  
  
“Nobel,” a street corner preacher, “Pulitzer,” a newspaper vendor, “Oscar,” a drag queen, “Ferraris,” left, “Porsches,” right, “Jags!” up, “Congress,” down, “The White House!” everywhere.  
  
He couldn’t block it out, too loud, too strong, he couldn’t get deep enough, far enough inside.  
  
New York City shrieked at Frodo. “Whatever you want, need, desire, everything ALL!”  
  
“SAM! I ONLY WANT SAM!”  
  
“No need to shout, Frodo. He’s only out in the garage unpacking the car.”  
  
“Mom?”  
  
“Yes, Frodo, dear?” Looking up from the sink where she was peeling the shell off a hard boiled egg, Primula Baggins smiled at her son. “What is it?”  
  
“Mom? You’re here?”  
  
“Well, of course I am, Frodo. Where else would I be? Got a dinner to prepare.”  
  
“Oh, my god! Mom!”  
  
“Make yourself useful and open the horseradish sauce. Put it in those special dishes.”  
  
“What, I mean, how - I don’t understand.”  
  
Hands filled with hardboiled egg, she pointed her elbow. “The ones there, on the counter.”  
  
Small, white dishes on the counter. The counter where Frodo ate his Corn Pops, did his homework after school, shared hot chocolate before bed.  
  
“But, you’re not, the last time, then you were -” his stammering threatened to dissolve into gibberish, “ - now, but, now, you’re, look, now, you’re _old_!”  
  
“Frodo Baggins-Gamgee!” A swatch of shell splattered onto the stainless steel. “If you’re trying to flatter me, you’re going about it -”  
  
“Wait a minute. What did you just call me?”  
  
“- in the wrong way. Most sons would say something like -”  
  
The door to the garage opened. “You’re looking beautiful as always, Prim.”  
  
“See? Something like that.” She stuck out her tongue at Frodo. “Here, let me help you with those.”  
  
“Mom, what the _hell_ is going on?”  
  
Stepping into the house, Sam handed over two full bags, then reached back for another load, this one suitcases. “Did I miss something?”  
  
“Nothing but your partner sticking his foot in his mouth by calling me old.” She kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “Happy Peshach, Samwise.”  
  
“You too, Prim. Frodo-love, not a good idea to insult the cook _before_ the meal.” Sam winked at Frodo, his eyes behind round wire-rimmed glasses brimming with adoration, his smile, enhanced by a neatly trimmed beard speckled with grey, speaking the promise, _Later_. “Just gonna put these in the back room.”  
  
“Sam!” Frodo rushed forward. “Don’t go!” But he had already disappeared down the hallway.  
  
“He’ll be right back, Frodo.”  
  
“But, I want - I need - what if he doesn’t -”  
  
“Don’t worry so. He won’t get lost. He certainly knows his way around this house by now. Frodo dear, are you feeling alright?”  
  
“This never, could never -” Frodo sagged against the doorway marked with lines and dates, the chronicle of his growing years. “Just so tired, can’t fight anymore.”  
  
“You work too hard, Frodo. Go sit down, but after you get the stool, that is. I need to get the platter down.”  
  
On wobbly legs, he retrieved the stool from its customary place tucked beside the fridge and placed it at his mother’s feet in front of the stove. “What’s the date, Mom?”  
  
Climbing up, Prim looked back at her son with motherly concern. “Now, why would you ask that?”  
  
“Just tell me. Please?”  
  
“April sixth.” She passed down a large platter trimmed in gold and adorned with the large initial ‘B’. “The first day of Passover.”  
  
The dish was heavy. He’d never been allowed to hold it before. Handed down from generation to generation, this was the one surviving piece of the 12 place setting of china that made the journey from the Old Country. “What year?”  
  
“Go put that over on the table, please. Should get the bread basket while I’m up here, too.” She stood on tip-toes, rummaging to the back of the cabinet. “Of course you know the year, Frodo. What a silly question!”  
  
“Humor me, Mom. What year is it?”  
  
“Last time I checked it was twenty-fifteen.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
A familiar face appeared from the garage. “She’s just amazing! Beat me six times in a row. You’ve got a hopscotch champion on your hands there, son.”  
  
“Perhaps you’re just _old_ like me, Drogo, and don’t you dare touch those!” She threw a tea towel at her husband. “Nibbling will ruin your appetite.”  
  
Sam, two African violets in hand, returned to the kitchen. “See, Prim, I told you. Just let them be, don’t smother them, and these babies will grow all on their own.”  
  
The back door burst open and a whirlwind bounced in.  
  
“Wipe your feet! Don’t want to track the back yard through Grandma’s house.”  
  
“And shut the door! We’re not heating the whole neighborhood.”  
  
The tow-headed cherub ignored everyone, but instead made a bee-line for Frodo. “I beat him, I really did! And I drew it all by myself, just like you showed me. Come see, come on, please! Come see outside, Daddy!”  
  
The heirloom platter smashed to the floor.  
  
“GODDAMN YOU!”  
  
The first to move into the stunned silence, Sam pushed Prim towards his daughter, Grandma to Grandpa and hurried all three out to the dinning room. “It’s OK, work, been building up, that’s all. He’s tired, stressed. It’s OK, I’ve got him. Be just a minute, give us just a minute. Everything’ll be fine.”  
  
The trio left, questions and concerns unanswered.  
  
Now alone, Sam stared at Frodo and the broken platter. “You gonna tell what that was all about?”  
  
“Got to get the hell out of here.” China pieces crunched under his rushing feet. “Get the fuck away from here!”  
  
“Frodo, we need to talk about this!”  
  
“No, Sam, no! Leave me alone! I can’t, I won’t!”  
  
“Frodo, please just tell me -”  
  
Sam’s voice faded as Frodo ran from the kitchen, escaping his dream come true.  
  
“GODDAMN YOU!” He convulsed with sobs, the flames below leaping higher. “Why…why did you give me - _that_? _Why_?”  
  
_“Is that not what you desire, Frodo Baggins? Is that not what you've longed for?”_  
  
“Yes, dammit! Yes! Everything, every last fucking detail! Right there and it was mine!”  
  
“ _Then why do you hesitate? Take the Ring and it will be your life.”_  
  
“My life… _my_ life.”  
  
Parents not dead, but alive and healthy. His Dad, spending time researching the family genealogy and working on what he called his ‘Retirement gut.’ And Mom, with her hair richly silvered, blue eyes undimmed by age, taking to hobbies of calligraphy and water colors. Both happy and proud of their successful son.  
  
The Ring cool to Frodo’s palm, despite the time spent dangling over the fire.  
  
A thriving law practice, a list of clients a mile long all needing, demanding his legal expertise. Negotiations, briefs, contracts. But one client surpassed them all in Frodo’s eyes. One client’s needs always came first. Sam Gamgee, the children’s book author. Sam Baggins-Gamgee, his husband.  
  
The chain broke surprisingly easy when Frodo tugged the Ring free from the links.  
  
Legally married for five years, they shared a home, a life. Their relationship strong and solid, accepted and praised, love abundant and overflowing enough to include another.  
  
He watched the Ring twirl before his eyes, the smooth edges in his touch, wondering if it would be too big for his finger.  
  
Adopted a year ago, the curly-haired dynamo filled their apartment with so much joyful noise the neighbors should have been constantly pounding on the front door. No one complained, though. Just as with her two daddies, Elanor had stolen the heart of every resident of The Shire.  
  
“My life.”  
  
A violent geyser of fire bubbled up, spewing outward, rocking the Cracks and shaking the platform, slamming Frodo hard against the railing - breaking him from his temptation.  
  
“What the hell - what the fuck am I doing? Listening to this shit. No, NO!” He thrust his hand out, the Ring burning in his fist. “Destroy it NOW!”  
  
_“NO! Don’t throw it all away, don’t destroy your chance at happiness! Claim your life, Frodo Baggins! Take the Ring!”_  
  
“Shut the fuck up! You can’t give me happiness.” Fingers began to uncurl. “There’s nothing left for me. No happiness, no Sam, no life.”  
  
_“Your life is just beginning. Listen now”_  
  
A woman laughing, light and breezy, a bawdy joke learned at a grandfather’s knee, taught in turn to her son.  
  
“Shut up!” Frodo heaved in lungfuls of sulphur. “Not real, not my mother.”  
  
He heard the voice of a patient father explaining the algebraic formula to his confused son for the fourth time.  
  
“Not true, will never be true!” He closed his eyes to the fiery bright, bowed his head, blood slipping down his chest.  
  
Girlish squeals of delight pierced the air, so excited over her new found toy.  
  
Knees buckled and Frodo’s chin knocked the railing as he went down, the heat scorching through torn and tattered, filthy denim to burn his skin. “Can’t - no more, just stop - please!”  
  
_“You must choose, Frodo. This –”_  
  
Blank. Empty. Silence. Frodo existed in a void of only darkness and pain. And he was utterly alone.  
  
_“- or this.”_  
  
Primula and Drogo Baggins talked politics on the back deck. Elanor scuffed up her Converse sneakers climbing towards the tree house tucked in the branches of the old oak tree on the corner of the yard. Frodo stood by the fence, looking out on the beauty of an upstate New York spring. He shivered in the chilly breeze.  
  
“Frodo! Where are you?”  
  
“Here, Sam.”  
  
Warm arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him in safe. “Did you do it?”  
  
_“Oh, yes. One more gift for you.”_  
  
Sam’s music returned.  
  
_“Decide, Frodo.”_  
  
Playing with the wedding band on Sam’s finger, Frodo fished out a matching one from his pocket.  
  
Against his face a beard scratched, tender lips brushed through his hair. “Is it done?”  
  
Leaning on his Sam, accepting and embracing all as truth, Frodo said, “The choice is made,” and onto his third finger, he slipped the Ring.  



	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, gentle readers, at the end of this part of the journey. This has been, and continues to be, a tremendous labor of love for me, I've fallen truly, madly, deeply for my Frodo and Sam, Aragorn and Gandalf, all of my characters, and my humble thanks go out to all those who've traveled the road with me, read, and left kudos. This modern Ring saga does not end here, for there is much left to tell and explore, but, alas, it is reaching the paper and final stages in slow fits and starts. When my exacting editor's eye wrenches the text from my author's insecurities, you'll be the first to know. 
> 
> Thank you again,
> 
> B

 

**The Ring Unmade**  
Chapter Twenty-One  
  


 

  
  
The rock hit the fat one with a crunch. He went down, slamming hard against the blistering metal, but they didn’t care if he ever got up again.   
  
_Through with that cocksucker._  
  
Their goal, their prize, what they had prostituted for at the hand of queers was out on the platform, brilliantly reflecting the fire of its making.  
  
_That’s MINE!_  
  
The other, the naive and trusting one _What a pussy!_ was begging for peace, weeping to be set free from his torment. But, they knew better.  
  
_The Treasure never lets go. Never! It calls, always it whispers and you must answer. There’s no escape._  
  
Behind, a feeble, “Frodo?” which they quickly silenced with a kick to its head.  
  
_Faggot’s too stupid to know it’s all over. The Treasure is mine, as soon as I take it from –_  
  
The platform was empty.  
  
_Godfuckingdammit! The pussy did it, he claimed the Treasure!_  
  
They kicked again and again, the fat one’s limp body shifting like a pile of filthy rags.  
  
_You distracted me! Fuck you! Fuck YOU!_  
  
The pussy walked in that wind whipped world, invisible now. But, to their eyes and ears he was not completely gone. They just needed to listen, listen for the whisper, tune in the voice that spoke as sweetly as it had from their first touch.   
  
_Listen…listen hard…I’ll find it…_  
  
They closed their eyes, trusting the Treasure would lead the way.  
  
_Talk to me, Treasure, talk to me and I’ll listen, I’ll find you. Where, where did -_  
  
Fists lashed out into empty air striking solid flesh.  
  
_There! Gotcha, pussy! Like I said, no escape._  
  
Their head snapped to the left, then right, a sharp agony of a kick to the balls flashed upwards. The little faggot was fighting back.  
  
_No! No fucking way! Not this time. The Treasure is_ mine!  
  
A tackling lunge and they bounced across the metal platform, the Treasure and its invisible thief trapped beneath.  
  
“Give it! Give it to me! It’s mine!”  
  
They snatched where hair should be, pounding and battering against the metal grate. Violently, an invisible nothing twisted and turned, battled to be let loose. It gouged at their eyes, tore at their blood stiff clothes, always intent on one thing.  
  
“Faggot! The Treasure! You can’t have it, it’s mine!”  
  
Unseen hands grappled, shoved and pummeled, hips bucked, feet hammered into their back. They latched on, though, using the advantage of position to dig knees into what had to be armpits, forcing ass and body weight down into what should be diaphragm.   
  
“Give it! Give it to me! Fucking queer! The TREASURE!”  
  
Their gut stood up to the punches, the slaps and swats smearing blood and spit, until one connected with their tender groin. Before it could rear back and hit again, the flaying wrist was captured.  
  
“The Treasure needs me! Give me my Treasure!”  
  
Teeth crunched through skin, hot crimson ran down their chin.  
  
_This is for all the groveling, petting and stroking we did for you!_  
  
Bones cracked against their tongue.  
  
_For all the baiting and name calling, the kicks and shit I took from your Prick over there!_  
  
They pulled and sinews snapped against their teeth.  
  
_For the fucking pity I saw in your eyes. Never wanted that, not from anybody, ‘specially not you!_  
  
Flesh, a small flap still clinging to knuckle, ripped and the pussy’s finger came off in their mouth.  
  
_MY TREASURE!_  
  
He shrieked, visible again, wails of anguish above the roar of the fire. Spurts of blood arced a regular rhythm from the stump clutched tightly to his chest, spilling down his arm, slipping through the metal, dripping to join the flame below. They didn’t care.  
  
“Oh, my fucking god! It’s mine! I have it! It’s _mine_! The Treasure!”  
  
The lifeless finger was tossed to the side, insignificant and forgotten. A nearly futile swipe across grimy pants to remove the faggot thief’s mess, and the Treasure hummed once more in the palm of their hand.  
  
“Yes, fucking YES! Whole again, it’s mine again! Fucking A, I’ve won!”  
  
The platform shook, the fat cocksucker moaned, the pussy still shrieked and they held up the Treasure to watch it sparkle in the light.  
  
“So long, so fucking long! Never again, never letting you out of my sight again. My Treasure!”  
  
“NO!”  
  
They couldn’t help it; the pathetic scene was just too much. They busted out laughing.  
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”  
  
The little faggot was crawling, the fingers of his good hand using the open pattern of the metal grate for purchase. Hatred and lust for the Treasure seethed in his eyes as he inched forward.  
  
“The Ring is mine!”  
  
“Thank you, oh, fucking thank you!” They kissed the Treasure for handing them this opportunity to toy and humiliate. “Life is good again!”  
  
“The Ring is mine!”  
  
It burned a circle of heat into their outstretched palm. “You want it? The Treasure? You think you can take it away from me? Then come and get it, faggot.”  
  
The red smear behind the crawling pussy was growing too slowly. They didn’t want to stand and wait _‘cause he’s never gonna fucking get here before he croaks and then all the fun will be gone._ Dancing up close, they waved the Treasure under his nose. “Here, faggot, here it is. You want it, huh, you want the Treasure?”  
  
A trembling, lacerated hand snatched forward, but they were too quick. The Treasure darted away just in time. Tears of mirth actually sprang to their eyes when the faggot fell forward, trapping the mangled hand between body and metal. Another cry of delicious anguish.  
  
“You’ll never get the Treasure, pissant. Never!”  
  
A great rumbling from deep within the earth rocked the platform. The metal structure swayed, straining the bolts that held it safe from the molten conflagration below.  
  
“The Ring is mine!”  
  
Hurling taunts at the ever weakening pussy bored, the game stale. Even for them “Cocksucker!” lost its joy.   
  
_Besides, got much better things to do than waste it on that piece of homo trash._  
  
“Run, hide, get the hell out of here before the Eye figures out what happened.”  
  
They looked at it, nestled securely within their care. A turn of the wrist and the light caught the edge. The other way and a shadow spread out across their palm. “So beautiful, so – what the fuck?” Up close, they scrutinized the Treasure. “Is that a scratch? Goddammit!” A swift kick at the faggot’s shoulder turned him over on his back. Nose to nose, they screamed. “What’s this, huh? What’s this? A fucking scratch?”  
  
Cross-eyed, he tried to focus, gasping to suck in a breath around the knee planted on his chest. “The Ring…the Ring…”  
  
They batted away the faggot’s weak grab. “If you damaged the Treasure,” pushing off, they stood up to march to the edge, “hurt it in anyway -” arms stretched out over the fire, searching for the best light, “- I’ll fucking kill you myself.”  
  
It wasn’t harmed, though. The Treasure was perfect and they fell in love all over again, reveling in its twinkle and firelight shine.  
  
“The Ring…is…”  
  
They rolled their eyes, quite fed up. “You’re fucking pathetic, you know that?” They glanced back at the little fairy. “Get it through your queer head. I won. I _won_! Victory is mine saith the -”  
  
The earth moved again. The platform shuddered. The railing fell away.  
  
“NNNNNNNNO!”  
  
Smeagol hit the river of fire with a smack-splat, consumed instantly. The Treasure floated for a moment, riding the fire, then disappeared without a sound.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Time stopped.  
  
All who fought before the Black Gates ceased in the struggle. At Minas Tirith those who waited impatiently turned to the East, their tasks forgotten. In Rivendell and Ithilien, even those unaware all around the world, paused. For just the briefest of moments humanity stopped, and every heart bore witness to the destruction of the Ring.  
  
Silence reigned.  
  
The clock ticked forward once more, and everyday life resumed. The Institute and Mirkwood breathed a solemn sigh of relief. Back slapping and whoops of victory rang through the empty halls of the White City. Those lucky enough to survive the Final Battle fell to their knees in shock, amazed by their good fortune.  
  
Thunder cracked.  
  
The ground heaved, scattering stone and body. The Black Gates moaned and screamed before tumbling inward, crushing thousands beneath the obsidian stone. Buildings fell, crashing in heaps of twisted metal. The Tower, the Eye perched on top still insanely fighting what it had believed impossible, exploded, stone shrapnel flying in all directions. Fire erupted, shooting skyward from bottomless fissures within the crust. All of Mordor burned, its air rife with the anguish of the defeated. Sauron and all that he had touched crumbled away. The Earth shook violently to rid itself of the corruption, eager to swallow the Land of Shadow.  
  
And in the middle of it all, Frodo and Sam.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
“Frodo?”  
  
Blood. Blood everywhere. A clotted trail smeared across the hot metal of the platform. Rolling back and forth, the structure fought to hold on against its weakening foundation.  
  
“Frodo!”  
  
“It’s gone.”  
  
“Oh, god, Frodo!”  
  
“It’s gone, Sam, it’s gone.”  
  
“I can fucking see that, Frodo! Jesus, shit! How – so much blood – where is -?”  
  
“Not my finger, Sam. It’s gone. The Ring.”  
  
Pitched sideways by a heavy shake, the platform canted sharply to the left, straining the bolts holding it safe above the magma.  
  
“It’s done? Finished?”  
  
“Yes, oh, Sam, it is done!”  
  
“Oh, shit. Now, here, Frodo, don’t cry. Don’t, god, Frodo.”  
  
“I’m free. I’m _free_!”  
  
Up, then back down, the entire structure jumped, jarring and bumping, coming to a momentary rest just yards from the encroaching fire.  
  
“Got to get you out of here now! Can you walk?”  
  
“Where in the hell are we going to go, Sam? There’s no place, everything’s burning. There’s no escape.”  
  
“I’ll be damned if we’re gonna die in this hell hole! Get up!”  
  
Rumblings from below, like petulant shouts, beat against the walls.  
  
“Sam, what are you doing?”  
  
“Your finger, if we can find it, maybe the doctors can reattach -”   
  
“Leave it, Sam. Doesn’t matter now, anyway.”  
  
The primordial fire claimed the farthest edge of the platform. It went down with a shriek, the rest queueing up for a turn to jump into the flames.  
  
“Fuck! Out, now!”  
  
Even on the outside, the double doors smoked, the bubbling paint marking a surreal pattern across the wood. The narrow bridge shuddered, a counterpoint to the shake of the walls.  
  
“You hear it? Loud. God, Sam, I never realized just how loud your music is!”  
  
“Uh, sorry ‘bout that.”  
  
“No! No, I love it! Love the music. Love you. Wish I had my glasses, wish I could see where the _fuck_ we’re going.”  
  
“I’ve got you, Frodo. Won’t let you go.”  
  
“Ever.”  
  
The double doors exploded out, the blast of heat and twisted metal tearing them from ancient hinges. A massive wall of flame belched, ravenous to consume even more.  
  
“Shit! Frodo! Frodo, you OK? Let me see. Anything, anything broken? Frodo?”  
  
“I’m all right – is that blood? Sam? Sam, your head!”  
  
“Just a scratch.”  
  
“Your eye, Sam -”  
  
“Not worth worrying over right now. Now we need – Shit! Metal’s fucking hot! We need a way out of here.”  
  
“Down? The way we came in?”  
  
Below, thirteen flights of rusted metal stairs began to sway, creaking and popping, the narrow bridge answering in kind.  
  
“What - are we moving? What was that? Sam, talk to me!”  
  
“Not that way. OK, OK, there’ got to be, got to be! A hatch, a crawlspace, a fucking window -”  
  
“Sam? What are you -?”  
  
“- an opening, a hole, anything! Dammit!”  
  
The bridge shook, a tremor that started at the bottom of the stairs and traveled up, gathering speed and force, coming to a stop with a high whine of metal on metal.  
  
“Fuck, Sam! I need to hear you! What’s happening?”  
  
“A slot, a niche, a -”  
  
“Sam!”  
  
The tremors started again, this time not stopping, but becoming continuous motion that rattled and squeaked and groaned.  
  
“Sam! Fuck, Sam!”  
  
“Dear God, I’ll take anything, _anything_! Just let me get my Frodo out of here! Please!”  
  
The entire building shifted, walls and stairs alike. Railings skewed by the violent motion fell away. The ruins of the double doors plummeted into the dark. Extraneous pieces of metal and wood tumbled, clattering and bouncing off concrete as they went.  
  
“Oh. Oh. Oh, _yes_! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! God, thank you!”  
  
A doorway in the far corner, relieved of its disguise of oneness with the walls, squatted – small, unassuming, its true purpose hidden.  
  
“Sam, fucking talk to me! What’s happening, what do you see?”  
  
“A miracle. Come on, Frodo.”  
  
“But, where in the hell are we -?”  
  
“The only way out of here. Stay pressed to the wall, Frodo. Shuffle sideways, and don’t let go of my hand!”  
  
Only a sigh’s width across, a ledge hugged the concrete wall showing the way to the mystery door. Although independent of purpose, it still shared the narrow bridge’s dance when the whole building trembled again.  
  
“Fuck! Fuck!”  
  
“One step at a time, Frodo, keep moving. Slowly…slowly. That’s it. Halfway there. Against the wall, that’s it, Frodo. Gonna make it, we’re gonna get out of here.”  
  
“Bad time to mention I’m kinda afraid of heights, huh? Not that it matters, ‘cause I can’t see shit.”  
  
The stairs twisted, first left, then right; a bizarre stretch for freedom.  
  
“Consider yourself lucky on that one, Frodo.”  
  
With a mournful groan, they began to fold in, each flight closing up faster then the one before.  
  
“There! Shit, yeah! We fucking made it!” To the wall, to the door, still ledge hanging, though. Now, if only - no, of course the door’s locked. Got to keep out all those strangers wandering around Mordor. Fuck!”  
  
“Sam, something’s wrong. I can hear it. Sam -”  
  
“Maybe it I just – Shit! That was my shoulder! Let’s try – OW! Fuck! And that was my foot!”  
  
“Something’s wrong, Sam, bad wrong.”  
  
Constructed as a single unit, the stairs and bridge were reluctant to separate now. When the thirteenth and last flight succumbed to the pull of gravity and weight from below, it tumbled down. And the bridge, not wanting to be left behind, quickly followed. The entire metal structure now hung by six bolts deeply embedded into the concrete wall; the same ones that held up the tiny ledge.  
  
“Oh, fuck me.”  
  
The first two popped out, small plumes of dust billowing up, the metal singing as it bent towards the middle.  
  
“Oh, shit! Sam, what’s – it’s moving, we’re moving! What – Sam – fuck!”  
  
“Get this, ow, door open, shit, no, open, damn, open, fuck, OPEN!”  
  
Numbers three and four bolts eased free slowly, hanging on just the last free threads before giving up to the inevitable.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
“Stay back, Frodo, against the wall! Lean back! Stay right there, don’t move!”  
  
“Sam, I – what – NO! Don’t let, your hand! NO!”  
  
“Got to let go now, Frodo. I need both hands to open -”  
  
“NO! NO, Sam, don’t!”  
  
“Got to, Frodo, got to! Grab my waist. Hold on. Lock your fingers. Hold on. Whatever happens, Frodo, just hold on!”  
  
“SAM!”  
  
“Hold on!”  
  
Bolt five staunchly refused to budge despite the tremendous weight now swaying on its thin metal strength.  
  
“Open, fucking door, OPEN! OPEN! Kick you into fucking kindling, you FUCKING OPEN!”  
  
“My, can’t lock on, hands too slippery, blood, my finger, Sam, I –”  
  
The door splintered, rotten wood cracking inward. A rush of stale air was lost in the enveloping sulphurous fog.  
  
“There! ‘Bout fucking time! Don’t know where the hell this goes, but -”  
  
“My hands – can’t hold -”  
  
Tired of its appointed task, the sixth and last bolt retired, pulling out of the concrete. The fifth had no other option but to follow suit. The stairs and everything they held slipped away with a whoosh.  
  
“FRODO!”  



End file.
